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THE LIBRARY OF CHOICE FICTION, 


NOTRE COEUR 

(THE HUMAN HEART) 


BY 

GUY DE MAUPASSANT 

AUTHOR OF 

“Pierre et Jean,” “La Main Gauche,” etc 


Translated by Alexina Loranger Donovan 


/ 9^ ^(-pYRIGHr 


CFP 1 IRQ 
■ 


'h> 


CHICAGO: 

LAIRD & LEE, PUBLISHERS 

1890 


"P'7 3. 

,W,44SV 


Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1890, by 
LAIRD & LEE, 

in the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 


PART I. 


CHAPTER 1. 


One day Massival, the musician, and cele- 
brated author of Rebecca, who for the past 
fifteen years has been known as “the young 
and illustrious master,” said to his friend, 
Andre Mariolle: 

“ Why have you never been presented to 
Mme. Michele de Burne ? I assure you that 
she is one of the most fascinating women of 
new Paris.” 

“ Because I feel that I was not born for her 
circle.” 

“You are wrong, my dear friend. Her 
drawing-room is original; very new, very 
lively, and very artistic. The music is excel- 
lent, the conversation as interesting as in the 


8 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


first salons of the last century. You would 
be appreciated there; first, because you play 
the violin to perfection, then, because they 
frequently speak of you, and, finally, because 
you are known to be neither commonplace 
nor prodigal with your visits.” 

Flattered, but still resisting, supposing, 
moreover, that the young woman was not 
ignorant of this pressing invitation, Mariolle, 
who was reluctant to show his eagerness, 
answered, indifferently : 

“ Peuh! I care but little.” 

“ Shall I present you one of these days ? ” 
rejoined Massival. “You already know her, 
however, for we, her intimate friends, speak 
of her so frequently. She is a very pretty 
woman of twenty- eight, quite intelligent, and 
has no wish to marry again, having been very 
unhappy in her first choice. Her house has 
become a rendezvous of agreeable men. You 
will never find too many of one circle, only 
enough of each for effect. She would be en- 
chanted to receive you. ” 

“So be it,” answered Mariolle, conquered. 
“ You may present me one of these days.” 


NOTRE C(EVR. 


9 


Early in the following week the musician 
called on Mariolle, and asked: 

“ Will you be at liberty to-morrow ? ” 

“Why — yes.” 

“Very well. I will take you to dine with 
Mme. de Burne. She has intrusted me with 
an invitation for you. However, here is a 
note from her. ” 

After a few seconds of reflection, for form’s 
sake, Mariolle announced his readiness to ac- 
cept the invitation. 

Andre Mariolle was about thirty-seven 
years of age, a bachelor, and without a pro- 
fession ; rich enough to live as he pleased, to 
travel, and even to possess a pretty collection 
of modern paintings and rare knickknacks. 
He was known as a man of intelligence, some- 
what eccentric, unsociable, capricious, but 
inclined to haughtiness ; one who posed as a 
recluse rather more from pride than timidity. 
Talented, witty but indolent, quick to under- 
stand, and perhaps qualified to do many things, 
he was contented to enjoy existence as a 
spectator, or rather as an amateur. Had he 
been poor, he would have undoubtedly become 
a remarkable or even a celebrated man ; being 


lO 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


born wealthy, he eternally reproached him- 
self for having achieved nothing. True, he 
had made divers though feeble attempts in the 
direction of the arts ; one toward literature, 
in publishing an interesting account of travels, 
written in a clever and pleasing style ; 
another, in the direction of music by practi- 
cing the violin ; in this he had acquired, even 
among the members of the profession, a 
renown as a very good amateur ; one toward 
sculpture, that art in which original skill or 
the gift of chiseling bold and deceptive figures, 
replaces knowledge and study in the eyes of 
the ignorant. His statuette in clay, Masseur 
tunisien, had even obtained some favorable 
notice in the Salon of the preceding year. 

A fine horseman, and, it was also said, a 
skillful swordsman, although he never fenced 
in public, influenced in this, probably, by the 
same motives which made him avoid the world 
where serious rivalries were to be feared. 

Nevertheless, his friends appreciated and 
praised him unanimously, perhaps because 
he did not rival them. He was said to be a 
devoted and a reliable friend, agreeable in 
manners and of a sympathetic disposition. 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


II 


Of rather tall stature, he wore his black 
beard short on the cheeks and coming to a fine 
point at the chin ; his crispy hair was slightly 
tinged with gray — in fine, he presented a 
good appearance, with his brown eyes, which 
were bright, quick, distrustful, and a little 
severe. 

His intimate friends, who were mostly 
artists, among whom were the writer Gaston 
de Lamarthe; Massival, the musician ; Jobin, 
Rivollet, and de Maudol, the painters, ap- 
peared to prize his sense, his friendship, his 
intelligence, and even his judgment ; although 
among themselves, with that vanity which 
is inseparable from acquired success, he was 
considered as a very amiable and intelligent 
failure. 

His haughty reserve seemed to say : “ I 
am nothing because I will it so.” He there- 
fore lived in a narrow circle, disdaining the 
elegant gallantries of the fashionable draw- 
ing-rooms, where others more brilliant than 
he might have thrown him back into the 
army of mere worldly figures. He visited 
only those houses where his hidden and seri- 
ous qualities would be surely appreciated; 


12 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


and, if he had consented so quickly to accept 
Mme. Michele de Burne’s invitation, it was 
because his best friends, they who proclaimed 
his merits everywhere, were frequent visitors 
at her house. 

Mme. de Burne occupied a pretty entresol, 
Rue du General-Foy, in the rear of Saint 
Augustin. Two of the rooms overlooked 
the street: the drawing-room, in which she 
received everybody, and the dining room; two 
others faced a beautiful garden, which was 
attached to the house. The first of these 
was a second drawing-room, very large and 
of rectangular shape, with three windows 
shaded by trees, the leaves of which rustled 
against the eaves of the house. This room 
was furnished and decorated with objects of 
art, exceptionally rare and simple, of exqui- 
site taste and great value. The seats, tables, 
small buffets or what-nots, and paintings, the 
fans and small porcelain figures under glass, 
the vases, statuettes, and the enormous clock 
in the center of a panel, the whole of the 
decorations of this apartment attracted and 
retained the eye by its form, age, or its 
elegance. To create this interior, of which 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


13 


she was almost as proud as of herself, she 
had availed herself of all the knowledge, 
friendship, good-will and ferreting instincts of 
the artists whom she knew. As she was 
rich and liberal, they had found for her all 
the animated things of that original character 
which the vulgar amateur cannot distinguish; 
thus through them she had made a unique 
habitation, difficult to enter, where she 
imagined her friends were more pleased, 
and returned more willingly, than to the 
commonplace drawing-rooms of the women 
of the world. 

It was even one of her favorite theories to 
pretend that the tints of the hangings and 
tapestries, the comfort of the seats, the ele- 
gance of forms, the beauty of the whole, 
caressed, captivated and enraptured the eyes 
as much as the pretty smiles. She was 
accustomed to say, that apartments were 
either sympathetic or antipathetic, rich or 
poor, and that, like the beings who inhabited 
them, they attracted, retained or repelled. 
They awakened or benumbed the heart, 
warmed or chilled the mind, made persons 
talkative or silent, rendered them gay or sad; 


H 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


in fact, gave to each visitor an uncontrollable 
desire to remain or go away. 

Near the middle of this somewhat somber 
gallery, a grand piano, between two vases of 
flowers, occupied a place of honor, and as- 
sumed the airs of a master. Further on, a 
lofty door in two panels divided this room 
from the bed-room, which, in turn, opened into 
the dressing-room. It was also large and el- 
egant, hung with chintz like a summer parlor; 
and this was where Mme. de Burne, when 
alone, spent most of her time. 

Married to a polished scoundrel — one of 
those domestic tyrants before whom all must 
bow — she had been very unhappy. During 
five years she had to submit to the exactions, 
severities, jealousies, and even to the violence 
of this intolerable master; and, terrified, par- 
alyzed by surprise, she had lived without re- 
volting before this revelation of conjugal life, 
crushed under the despotic and torturing will 
of the male brute of whom she was the prey. 

While returning home one night, he died 
from the ruptyre of an artery; and, when the 
body of her husband was carried in, enveloped 
in a covering, she had gazed at it, unable to 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


15 


believe in the reality of this deliverance, with 
a profound joy and a great fear that it would 
be visible. 

Of an independent nature, gayj even ex- 
uberant, very vivacious and fascinating with 
those witty sallies which are sown, no one 
knows how, in the minds of certain young 
girls of Paris, who seem to have inhaled, dur- 
ing infancy, the peppery breath of the boule- 
vards, with which is mingled each night, 
through the open doors of the theaters, the 
sound of applause or hisses of the play. She 
had, however, retained from her five years of 
slavery a timidity singularly mixed with her 
former forwardness; a great fear of saying or 
doing too much, with an ardent desire for 
emancipation, and an energetic determination 
of never again compromising her liberty. 

Her husband, man of the world, had taught 
her to receive like a dumb slave, at once el- 
egant, polite, and ornamental. Among the 
friends of this despot were a number of artists, 
whom she had received with curiosity and 
listened to with pleasure, withouj: daring to 
show how well she understood and appreci- 
ated them. 


i6 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


As soon as her term of mourning was over, 
she invited a few to dinner one evening. Two 
of the invited guests sent excuses, three 
others accepted, and were astonished to find 
a charming and open-hearted young woman, 
who made them feel at ease at once, and who 
told them gracefully what pleasure it had been 
to her to receive them formerly. 

Little by little she then made from among 
her former acquaintances, who had either 
ignored or misunderstood her, a choice ac- 
cording to her own tastes ; and began to re- 
ceive as a widow or a free woman, but as one 
who wished to remain respectable, gathering 
around her all the desirable men of Paris, 
with only a few women. 

The first admitted into her circle became 
intimate friends ; they formed a basis and at- 
tracted others, giving to the house the ap- 
pearance of a small court, where each fre- 
quenter brought either merit or a name, for 
several carefully chosen titles were associated 
with the intellectual commonalty. 

Her father, M. de Pradon, who occupied 
apartments above her own, served as a chap- 
eron and a badge of dignity. He was an old 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


17 


gallant, elegant, intellectual, and very atten- 
tive to her, treating her more as a woman of 
the world than as a daughter. He presided 
at her Thursday dinners, which soon became 
well known and cited through Paris, and were 
also much sought after. The demands for 
presentations and invitations that poured in, 
were discussed, and frequently rejected after 
a sort of vote in the circle of intimates. Witty 
sayings emanated from the circle, and went the 
rounds of society. Actors, artists and young 
poets made their debut there, and this became 
a veritable baptism of renown. Long-haired 
artists brought by Gaston de Lamarthe, re- 
placed near the piano the Hungarian violon- 
ists presented by Massival ; and exotic dan- 
seuses executed their difficult poses there be- 
fore appearing in public at FEden or at the 
Folies-Bergere. 

Mme. de Burne, although jealously guarded 
by her friends, and retaining still a keen and 
repelling recollection of her married life, had 
the wisdom to not augment too greatly the 
number of her acquaintances. Satisfied, and 
frightened at the same time at what might be 
said or thought of her, she abandoned herself 

Notre Coeur 2 


i8 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


to her bohemian instincts with great plebeian 
prudence. She clung to her renown, avoided 
all rashness, keeping her whims within bounds, 
and, moderate in her audacity, was careful that 
no one should suspect her of a liaison, love- 
making or intrigue. 

All had tried to become her lovers ; none, it 
was said, had succeeded. They confessed 
and admitted it to each other with surprise, 
for men are slow, and perhaps with reason, to 
admit of virtue in an independent woman. A 
legend was whispered amongst them. It was 
said that her husband, at the beginning of 
their married life, had acted in such a brutal 
manner that she was forever cured of love for 
men. Her intimate friends often discussed 
this phase of her character, and infallibly came 
to this conclusion : That a young girl brought 
up to dream of future tenderness in conjugal 
life, must have been inexpressibly shocked at 
the exigencies of marriage when revealed by 
a profligate. 

That worldly philosopher, George de Mal- 
try, would laugh softly, and add : 

“ Her hour will come. It always does for 
that sort of women. The later it comes, the 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


19 


louder it will strike. With the artistic taste 
of our friend, she is certain to eventually love 
a singer or pianist.” 

Gaston de Lamarthe thought otherwise. 
In his quality of novelist, observer and psy- 
chologist, devoted to the study of the people 
of the world, of whom he drew accurate and 
ironical portraits, he professed to understand 
and analyze women with an infallible and 
unique penetration. He classed Mme. de 
Burne amongst the mistaken ones of the day, 
a type he had portrayed in his interesting 
novel: '‘'‘line d' Elies." He was the first to 
describe that new race of women agitated by 
hysterical fits of reasoning, moved by a thou- 
sand contradictory impulses, which do not 
even become desires, disenchanted with all 
things without having tasted anything, either 
through the fault of circumstances, of the 
actual times, or of modern writings; and who, 
without ardor, without enthusiasm, seem to 
combine the whims of a spoiled child with the 
dryness of an old skeptic. 

He, like the rest, had failed in his attempts 
to become her lover. 

For all these faithful followers had each in 


20 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


turn been in love with Mme. de Burne, and, 
after the crisis, continued to be affected in dif- 
ferent degrees. Little by little they had 
formed a small congregation. She was the 
Madonna of whom they spoke incessantly 
among themselves, held under the charm 
even far from her. They toasted her, praised, 
criticised or depreciated her, according to 
the day, the rivalries, irritations or prefer- 
ences she had shown. They were continually 
jealous, and distrusted each other, but agreed 
above all things that the circle around her be 
kept tightly closed, that no redoubtable rival 
might present himself. There were seven of 
them: Massival; Gaston de Lamarthe; big 
Fresnol, the young philosopher and man of 
the world, so much in vogue; George de 
Maltry, celebrated for his paradoxes, his 
complicated eruditions, eloquent and always 
of the latest, incomprehensible even by his 
most passionate admirers, and also renowned 
for his dress, which was always as odd as his 
theories. To these she had added a few men 
of the world, reputed witty; Count de Ma- 
rantin, Baron de Gravil, and two or three 
others. 


NOTRE COS UR. 


21 


The two most favored of this chosen army 
I appeared to be Massival and Lamarthe; they 
I seemed to possess the charm of always inter- 
j esting the young woman, who was amused by 
i their off-hand manners, their jokes, and their 
I skill in making fun of everybody, and even a 
little of herself when she would tolerate it. 

^ But the care (natural or assumed) which she 
j took of never showing to any of her admirers 
I a prolonged or marked predilection, the mis- 
chievous and unconstrained manner of her 
coquetteries, and the equal distribution of her 
favors, maintained amongst them a friendship 
seasoned with hostilities, and an intellectual 
ardor that was very amusing. 

Once in a while, one of them, to vex the 
rest, would present a friend. But as this friend 
was never very eminent, or interesting even, 
the others, who were leagued against him, did 
not oppose him very strongly. 

It was in this manner that Massival intro- 
duced his friend Andre Mariolle into the 
If house. 

A servant, in black, called out their names: 

“ Monsieur Massival! ” 

“ Monsieur Mariolle! ” 


22 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


Under a cloud of rosy silk, which served 
as a shade for a large lamp, supported by a 
column of gilded bronze, and which cast a 
brilliant light on a square table of antique 
marble, the heads of a woman and of three 
men were bowed over an album that Lamarthe 
had just brought. In their midst stood the 
writer, turning the leaves and giving ex- 
planations. 

One of the heads turned, and Mariolle, who 
was advancing, saw a face, bright, fair and a 
little rosy, the hair clinging to her temples, 
and seeming to burn them like the flames 
of brushwood. The delicate and slightly 
retrousse nose seemed to make the face smile; 
the mouth clearly outlined by the lips, the 
dimples in the cheeks, the slightly project- 
ing chin, gave the face an air of mischief, 
while the eyes, by a singular contrast, gave it 
a shade of melancholy. They were blue, of a 
faded blue, as if they had been washed, rub- 
bed, worn-out; and the black pupils shining 
in their center were round and dilated. Their 
brilliant and singular expression seemed to tell 
of dreams of morphine, or, perhaps, of only 
the simple coquettish artifice of belladonna. 


NOTRE CCEUK. 


23 


Mme. de Burne advanced toward them, ex- 
tending her hand to welcome her new guests. 

“ I have long requested my friends to bring 
you here, ” said she to Mariolle, “ but I am 
obliged to repeat these things many times be- 
fore I am obeyed. ” 

She was tall, elegant, a little slow in her 
movements, and slightly decollete, showing 
only the tips of her pink shoulders, which the 
light rendered incomparably beautiful. Her 
hair was not red, however, but of that name- 
less hue seen in certain dead leaves burned 
by autumn. 

She presented Mariolle to her father, who 
bowed and extended his hand. 

The men».in three groups, were conversing 
familiarly together; seeming to feel quite at 
home in a sort of habitual circle where the 
presence of a woman added an air of gallantry. 

Big Fresnol was conversing with the Count 
de Marantin. The constant visits of Fresnol, 
and the predilection shown for him by Mme. 
de Burne, vexed and often angered her friends. 
Still young, but big as a puffing, inflated rub- 
ber man, almost without beard, his head en- 
veloped in a vague cloud of light downy hair. 


24 


NOTRE cm UR. 


vulgar, tiresome and ridiculous, he possessed 
but one merit — disagreeable in the eyes of 
other men, but essential in those of the young 
woman — and this was, that he loved her 
blindly, more and better than all the world. 
They had baptized him “the seal” in the circle. 
Although married he had never spoken of 
bringing his wife, who was said to be very 
jealous. 

Lamarthe and Massival were especially in- 
dignant at the favorable notice Mme. de Burne 
accorded this puffed figure. But when they 
could no longer abstain from reproaching her 
for her egotistical, vulgar and doubtful taste, 
she would reply, with a smile: 

“I like him as I would a good faithful poodle.” 

George de Maltry and Gaston de La- 
marthe, meanwhile, were discussing the most 
recent and as yet uncertain discoveries of the 
microbiologists. M. de Maltry developed 
this thesis with infinite and subtile observa- 
tions and ideas; and the novelist, Lamarthe, 
accepted them with enthusiasm and with that 
facility with which mgn of letters receive, 
without reserve, all that appears to them new 
and original. 













% 




NOTRE CCEUR. 


25 


This philosopher of high life was blonde, a 
flaxen blonde, tall and thin, and dressed in a 
coat which was very tight on the hips. His 
delicate head was covered with blonde and flat 
hair, seeming almost pasted to it. 

As to Lamarthe, Gaston de Lamarthe, to 
whom his particles had inoculated some pre- 
tensions of the gentleman and man of the 
world, he was above all a man of letters, a 
pitiless and terrible man of letters, armed with 
an eye that gathered in every detail of face, 
attitude, and gesture, with the rapidity and pre- 
cision of photography; endowed with a pene- 
tration, with a talent for romance as natural 
as the scent of the hunting-dog, he laid up 
material for his profession from morning till 
night. With these two very simple senses, a 
clear vision for forms, and an instinctive 
intuition of what was underneath, he gave to 
his books, in which appeared none of the 
ordinary intentions of psychological writers, 
but which seemed like pieces of human exist- 
ence torn from the reality, the color, the tone, 
the aspect, the movement of life itself. 

The apparition of each of his works aroused 
in society agitations, suppositions, joy and 


26 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


anger; for it was asserted that the characters, 
scarcely hidden under a torn mask, were 
always recognized; his passage through a 
drawing-room always left a shade of uneasi- 
ness. Moreover, he had published a volume 
of personal recollections, wherein a number 
of men and women in his circle of acquain- 
tances were portrayed, clearly without ma- 
levolent intentions, but with such exacti- 
tude and severity that they had felt wounded. 
Some one had surnamed him “ Gate aux 
amis." 

He possessed an enigmatical soul and a, 
closed heart. It was said that he had once 
loved a woman who had made him suffer, and 
he now revenged himself on the rest of man- 
kind. 

He and Massival understood each other 
quite well, although the musician was of an 
entirely different nature ; more open, more 
expansive, less violent, perhaps, but more 
visibly sensitive. After two grand successes, 
the first being a work played at Brussels and 
afterward in Paris, where it had been received 
with great applause at I’Opera-Comique ; 
then a second, received and interpreted at 


NOTRE CCEVR. 


27 


once at the Grand Opera, and welcomed as 
the announcement of a wonderful talent, he 
had been overtaken by that sort of stoppage 
which seems to strike the majority of artists 
of the present day like a premature paralysis. 
They do not grow old in success and fame as 
did their fathers, but seem threatened with 
impotency in their prime. Lamarthe had 
said: “There are none but abortive great 
men in France at the present day.” 

Of late Massival had been unusually de- 
voted to Mme. de Burne, and this had been 
remarked by the circle ; as he now kissed her 
hand with an air of adoration all eyes were 
turned in his direction. 

“ Are we late ? ” he asked, 

“ No, I am still awaiting Baron de Gravil 
and the Marquise de Bratiane,” she replied. 

“Ah! the Marquise, how fortunate I We 
shall then have music this evening.” 

“ I hope so. ” 

The two tardy guests soon arrived. The 
Marquise was a rather small woman of Italian 
origin, with black eyes, eye-lashes, eye-brows, 
and hair so black and thick as to almost con- 
ceal the brow and menace the eyes. She 


28 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


was said to possess the most remarkable 
voice heard in the fashionable drawing-rooms 
of Paris. 

The Baron, a hollow-cnested, large-headed, 
and respectable man, was never complete 
without his violoncello. Being a passionate 
lover of music, he visited only those houses 
where music was honored. 

Dinner being announced, Mme. de Burne 
took the arm of Andre Mariolle and allowed 
all the other guests to pass first. Then, just 
at the moment of following, as the two were 
left alone for one instant, she cast one side- 
long glance at him out of her pale eyes with 
their dark lashes, in which he discerned a 
woman’s thought, more complicated and in- 
terested than pretty women are accustomed 
to bestow when receiving a gentleman to din- 
ner for the first time. 

The dinner was slow and monotonous. 
Lamarthe was nervous and hostile to every- 
body ; not openly hostile, as he wished to ap- 
pear well bred, but armed with that almost 
imperceptible ill-humor that restrains the 
easy flow of conversation. Massival, con- 
centrated, preoccupied, ate but little, and from 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


29 


time to time cast furtive giances at his hostess, 
who appeared to be anywhere but at home. 
Inattentive, smiling her replies, then sud- 
denly becoming grave, she must have been 
thinking of something which, if it did not very 
much preoccupy, certainly interested her more 
than her guests on this particular evening. 
Nevertheless she was attentive to the Mar- 
quise and to Mariolle ; but it was from duty 
and habit, her mind being visibly absent from 
herself and her surroundings. Fresnol and 
M. de Maltry were quarreling over poetry ; 
Fresnol setting up the arguments of a man of 
the world, and de Maltry those perceptions, 
incomprehensible to the vulgar, of the more 
complicated writer of verses. 

Several times during dinner, Mariolle again 
encountered the searching gaze of the young 
woman, but more vague, less fixed and curi- 
ous. The Marquise de Bratiane, Count Ma- 
rantin and Baron de Gravil formed one group 
and talked of everything. 

During the evening, Massival, who had be- 
come more and more melancholy, seated him- 
self at the piano and struck a few chords. 
This seemed to awaken Mme. de Burne, and 


30 


NOTRE cm UR. 


she soon made up a repertoire of her favorite 
pieces, and a concert followed. 

The marquise was in good voice, and, an- 
imated by the presence of Massival, she sang 
like a veritable artist; the master accompanied 
her with the same grave face he always as- 
sumed when at the piano, his long hair brush- 
ing his coat collar, and mingling with his 
silky, curly beard. Many women had loved 
him, and pursued him, it was said. Mme. de 
Burne seated herself near the piano, listening 
attentively to the music; and, although her 
eyes were fixed on him, she seemed not to 
see him. Mariolle began to feel a little jeal- 
ous — not exactly jealous of “him and her,” 
but, seeing this womanly gaze fixed on an 
illustrious man, his masculine vanity was 
wounded by that sentiment of classification 
which women make of men according to the 
fame they have acquired. He had frequently 
suffered in secret from contact with renowned 
men whom he had met when in the presence 
of “one” whose favors are for many the su- 
preme recompense of success. 

Aboutten o’clock theCountess de Fremines 
and two Jewish bankers’ wives arrived in 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


31 


close succession. The conversation then 
turned on a marriage just announced, and a 
prospective divorce. 

Mariolle was looking at Mme. de Burne, 
who was now sitting near a column that sup- 
ported an enormous lamp. 

Her delicate and slightly retrousse nose, 
the dimples in her cheeks and chin, gave her 
face an expression of childish mischief, not- 
withstanding the fact that she was nearly 
thirty years of age, and that look of a faded 
flower which lighted up her face with a dis- 
quieting light. Under the brightness of the 
light which inundated her, her skin was like 
white velvet, while her hair seemed truly 
colored by the autumn sun which tints and 
burns the dead leaves. 

She felt this manly gaze which came to her 
from the other end of the room ; and soon 
she arose, went toward him smiling, as we 
reply to a call. 

“ You must be bored, monsieur ! ” said she. 
“ When one is not acclimatized in a house, it 
is always wearisome.” 

She took a seat beside him, and they began 
to converse pleasantly at once. It was instan- 


32 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


taneous with both ; like a piece of tinder 
touched with a lighted match. They felt as 
though they had already communicated to 
each other their opinions and sensations ; 
that one nature and one education, the same 
inclination, the same tastes, had already pre- 
disposed and destined them to meet and 
understand each other. 

Something of this may have been due to 
the tact of the young woman. But the joy 
that we feel at finding some one who listens to 
us, who understands and replies to us, who by 
their replies furnish us with an opportunity of 
showing our wit, animated him with enthusi- 
asm. Flattered, moreover, by the manner of 
his reception, conquered by the challenging 
grace she displayed toward him, added to the 
charm she possessed of attracting all men, 
he endeavored to demonstrate to her that 
color of intelligence somewhat under a veil, 
but which was personal and delicate, and 
which, when he was well known and under- 
stood, always attracted rare and quick 
sympathies to him. 

Suddenly she said to him : 

“ It is truly a great pleasure to converse 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


33 


with you, monsieur. However, I had been 
warned,” 

He blushed, but answered boldly : 

“And I, madame, had been told that you 
were ” 

” Say a coquette,” she interrupted. “ I am 
indeed one with people who please me. All 
the world knows it; I do not hide it. But 
you will see that my coquetries are very 
impartial ; this permits me to keep or take 
back my friends without ever losing them, 
and to retain them around me,” 

She assumed a sly look, that said plainly: 
” Be calm and not too conceited ; do not 
deceive yourself, for you shall have no more 
than the rest.” 

“ This is called warning one’s friend of the 
dangers surrounding him here,” he replied. 
“ Thank you, madame; I admire frankness.” 

She had opened the way to speak of her- 
self ; he took advantage of it. He began by 
complimenting her, and saw that it pleased 
her ; then he awakened her feminine curiosity 
by telling her what was said of her in the 
different circles he frequented. She could 
not hide her anxiety to hear what they might 

Notre Coeur 3 


34 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


think of her existence and her tastes; but she 
affected a supreme indifference, though not a 
little disturbed. 

He drew a charming portrait of an inde- 
pendent woman, intelligent, superior and 
charming ; who had surrounded herself with 
eminent men, and yet remained an accom- 
plished woman of the world. 

She smilingly protested, with little self con- 
tented ejaculations of dissent. She was greatly 
amused by all the details he gave her, and in 
a bantering way, and by skillful questioning, 
commanded a constant flow of flatteries. 

As he looked at her he was thinking: “ At 
heart she is but a child like the rest.” And 
he completed a phrase in which he was com- 
plimenting her for her real love of art, so rare 
among women. 

She then suddenly assumed an air of un- 
foreseen satire, that French trait which is the 
marrow of our race. 

Mariolle had exaggerated his praises. She 
showed him that she was no silly child. 

“Indeed,” she said, “I must admit that I 
know not whether it is art or artists that I 
love.” 


NOTRE CCBUR. 


35 

‘'How can one love artists without loving’ 
art?” he asked, 

“Because they are sometimes more inter- 
esting than the men of the world. ” 

“Yes, but they have more annoying faults. ” 

“ It is true. ” 

“Then, you do not love music,” 

She suddenly became serious. 

“ On the contrary, I adore music. I believe 
I love it more than anything else. Never- 
theless Massival is convinced that I know 
nothing about it.” 

“He has told you so.” 

"No; he thinks so. ” 

“How do you know?” 

“ Oh ! we women guess nearly all that we 
do not know. ” 

“Then, Massival thinks you know nothing 
of music?” 

“I am sure of it. I see it by the manner 
in which he explains and underlines the shad- 
ings with the arr of one musing : ‘ It is of no 
use ; I only do it because you are so amiable.’ ” 

“And yet he told me that one heard better 
music in your home than in any other house 
in Paris.” 


36 


NOTRE CCS UR. 


“ Yes ; that is true, thanks to him. ” 

“And do you not love literature ?” 

“ I love it very much. I have even the 
pretension of feeling it strongly notwithstand- 
ing the opinion of Lamarthe. ” 

“ Who also considers that you know noth- 
ing of it. ” 

“Naturally!” 

“ But he has not told you so, either. ” 

“ Indeed he has told me. He believes that 
certain women may have a delicate and accu- 
rate perception of expressed sentiment of the 
truth of characters, of psychology in general, 
but that they are totally incapable of discern- 
ing what is best in his profession, ‘art.’ 
Really, when he has pronounced that word 
‘art,’ the best thing that can be done is to put 
him out of the house. ” 

“And you, madame, what do you think?” 
asked Mariolle, laughing. 

She reflected a few moments, then looked 
him full in the face, to see if he were disposed 
to listen and to understand her. 

“ I believe that sentiment, you understand 
— sentiment — may introduce all to the intel- 


NOTES CaiUE. 37 

lect of a woman; only it does not remain 
there always. Do you understand?” 

“Not very clearly, madame. ” 

“ Well, then, to render us comprehensible to 
the same degree that men are, one must ap- 
peal to our feminine nature before addressing 
our intelligence. We are but little interested 
in a man who does not first render us sympa- 
thetic, for we see all things through senti- 
ment. I do not say through love — no — 
through sentiment, which has all sorts of 
forms, manifestations, and shades. Sentiment 
is something that belongs to us; you do not 
understand it well, for it obscures you, while 
it enlightens us. Oh! I feel that all this is 
very vague to you; so much the worse. In 
fact, if a man loves us and is agreeable to us 
— for it is indispensable that we should feel 
that we are loved to become capable of this 
effort — and, if the man be a superior being, he 
may, by taking the trouble, make us feel all 
things, understand and penetrate all things, 
everything; and can communicate to us, 
little by little, shred by shred, the whole 
of his intelligence. Oh! all this is often 
effaced later, disappears, becomes obliterated. 


38 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


for we forget. Oh! yes, we do forget, as the 
air forgets the words. We are intuitive and 
illuminable, but changeable, impressionable, 
and variable, through the things that sur- 
round us. If you knew how many states of 
mind I traverse that make so many different 
women of me, according to the time, the state 
of my health, what I have read or what I 
have heard. Truly, there are days when I 
have the soul of an excellent mother of a 
family, without children, and then there are 
others when I have almost that of a cocotte — 
without lovers. ” 

He was charmed, and asked: 

“ Do you, then, believe that most intelligent 
women are capable of this activity of mind ? ” 
“ Y es, ” she replied. “Only they are asleep, 
and besides they have a determined existence, 
which attracts them one way or the other. ” 
“ Then, at heart, it is music that you prefer 
to all else ? ” 

“Yes; but what I was telling you a little 
while ago, is so true. Certainly I would 
never have tasted and adored it as I do, with- 
out that angel Massival. By teaching me 
how to play them, he has instilled the soul 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


39 


into all the great works that I already loved 
so passionately. What a pity he is married! ” 

She laughed as she said these last words, 
but there was a tinge of regret in her tone 
that told more than all her theories on women 
and her admiration of art. 

Massival was indeed married. Before his 
success and fame he had contracted one of 
those unions unknown artists often make, and 
which they regret to the end of their lives. 

He never spoke of his wife, neither had he 
ever presented her to the world he frequented, 
and, although he had three children, few of his 
friends knew it. 

Mariolle laughed. Decidedly this woman 
was most amusing, of a rare type, and exceed- 
ingly pretty. He could not withdraw his 
eyes from her, looking at her with a persist- 
ency which, however, did not trouble the 
young woman in the least. The face, grave 
and gay, with its mutinous expression, auda- 
cious nose, and voluptuous coloring of a 
blonde, soft and warm, lighted by the full 
summer of a maturity so just, so tender, so 
relishing, that she seemed to have reached 


40 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


the jear, the month, even the moment of her 
complete expansion. 

He repeated to himself : “ Is she painted? ” 
and he searched to find the tell-tale line, 
lighter or darker, at the roots of her hair : 
but without discovering it. 

The sound of footsteps behind him made 
him turn his head. Two servants were 
carrying the tea-table into the room, the 
small blue flame of the lamp causing a gentle 
murmuring sound of the water in the large 
silver kettle, which was as bright and as 
complicated as a chemical apparatus. 

“Will you take a cup of tea?” she asked. 

When he had accepted, she arose, and with 
a light, graceful step approached the table 
where the boiling water was singing in the 
interior of the kettle, amidst a profusion of 
fruits, cakes and bonbons. 

Her profile was clearly defined against the 
hangings of the room. Mariolle remarked 
the slender waist, the beautiful shoulders and 
the full rounded throat he had already so 
much admired. As her light dress trailed on 
the carpet behind her, making her body seem 


NOTRS CCS UR. 


41 


endless, he was thinking, crudely : “ She is a 
siren ! she promises well.” 

She was offering refreshments to her 
guests, going from one to the other with a 
movement of exquisite grace. Mariolle was 
following her with his eyes, when Lamarthe, 
who was walking about with his cup in his 
hands, stopped suddenly, and asked him if they 
should leave together. 

Mariolle assented, and, as Lamarthe com- 
plained of being tired, they left at once. 

When they reached the street the writer 
asked : ‘ ‘ Are you going home or to the club ? ” 

“ I shall spend an hour at the club.” 

“ At the Tambourins ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ I will accompany you to the door. Those 
places bore me, so I never go near them. I 
became a member only to have the use of the 
carriages.” 

He took the arm of Mariolle, and they 
walked in the direction of Saint Augustin. 
They had not gone many steps when Mariolle 
abruptly said; 

“What an odd woman! What do you 
think of her ? ” 


42 


NOTRE CCEVR. 


Lamarthe laughed. 

“ The crisis is commencing,” said he. “ Y ou 
will have your turn like the rest of us. I 
have had the disease, but I am now cured. 
My dear fellow, the crisis for her friends con- 
sists in speaking of her continually when they 
are together, whenever they meet, and wher- 
ever they may be.” 

“At any rate, this is the first time for me, 
and that is only natural, since I scarcely know 
her.” 

“Very well, then. Let us speak of her. 
You are sure to fall in love; everyone does, 
it is inevitable.” 

“Is she, then, so very enchanting ? ” 

“Yes and no. They who love the woman 
of the past, the woman of soul, the woman of 
heart, the women of sentiment, the woman of 
the novel of the past, have a horror of her, 
and execrate her even to the extent of accus- 
ing her of infamy. Others, that is, we who 
have tasted the modern charms, are compelled 
to admit that she is delicious, provided we do 
not fall in love with her, and that is what we 
invariably do. We do not die of it, neither 
do we suffer much, but we are enraged be- 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


43 


cause she is not different. You will surely 
succumb if she wishes it. Indeed, she has 
already captured you.” 

“ Oh! ” cried Mariolle, whose secret thought 
had been echoed by the words of his friend. 
“I am but the first comer with her, and I 
believe she loves titles of every kind. ” 

“Yes, indeed, she loves them; but, at the 
same time, she laughs at them. The most 
celebrated or distinguished man will not 
return to her house if he does not please her; 
nevertheless, she is s,tupidly attached to that 
idiot Fresnol, and to that bore de Maltry. 
She flirts with idiots, without excuse, no one 
knows why; perhaps, because they amuse her 
more, or, it may be that, at heart, they love her 
more than we do, and that all women are more 
susceptible to that than to anything else. ” 
Lamarthe continued to speak of her, to 
analyze and criticise her, frequently contra- 
dicting himself. And, as Mariolle plied him 
with questions, he replied with the sincere 
ardor of an interested man, carried away by 
his subject, sometimes a little vague, having 
his mind filled with true observations and false 
deductions. 


44 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


“She is not alone,” he said. “There are 
to-day in our world fully fifty who resemble 
her. Take, for instance, that little Fremines, 
who was there this evening; she is the same 
type, but bolder, and married to an odd being. 
She makes of her house one of the asylums 
for the demented, the most interesting in 
Paris. I frequently visit that box myself.” 

In the meantime, without noticing it, they 
had followed the boulevard Malesherbe, the 
rue Royale, I’avenue des Champs Elysees, 
and were nearing I’Arc de Triomphe, when 
Lamarthe suddenly looked at his watch. 

“My dear friend,” said he, “we have been 
speaking of her for one hour and ten minutes ; 
that suffices for to-night. Let us go to bed, 
I will conduct you to the club another even- 
ing.” 


CHAPTER II. 


It was a large and well-lighted room, the 
wall and ceiling hung with chintz brought 
from Persia by a friend in the diplomatic 
corps. The background was yellow, of a 
peculiar shade, as if it had been immersed in 
a cream of gold. The designs of many tints, 
in which predominated the Persian green, 
represented odd constructions of upturned 
eaves, around which lions with wings, ante- 
lopes with horns, were running, and birds of 
paradise were flying. 

There was but little furniture. Three long 
tables of green marble held all that serves for 
the toilet of a woman. Large bowls of thick 
crystal stood on the center one; the second 
contained an array of bottles, boxes and 
vases of all shapes crowned with silver tops ; 
on the third were found all those tools and 
instruments, whose complicated, mysterious, 

45 


46 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


and delicate use assist in modern coquetry. 
Two reclining-chairs and a few low seats of 
raw silk, soft, and made to rest the tired limbs 
or the denuded body, were spread about the 
room. An immense mirror covered one of 
the walls. It was in three panels, the two 
sides turning on pivots, permitting the young 
woman to see at once her face, her profile, 
and her back, thus inclosing herself in her 
own image. To the right, in a niche ordi- 
narily concealed by a curtain, was a bath, or 
rather a deep vase, also of green marble ; it 
was reached by descending two steps. A 
bronze Cupid, designed by the sculptor 
Predole, was seated on the edge of the vase, 
and dispensed hot and cold water through the 
shells with which he played. At the farther 
end of this nook, a folding Venetian mirror, 
in several sections, reflected, in each of its 
parts, both the bath and the bather. 

Near this was also a writing-desk, a small 
and beautiful piece of modern English furni- 
ture. It was covered with loose papers, 
folded letters, and torn envelopes, on which 
sparkledgilt initials. This was where she wrote 
her letters, and indeed lived when alone. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


47 


Seated on a reclining--chair, in a dressing- 
gown of china silk, her beautiful arms, bare 
from the shoulders, gleaming through the 
folds of her dress, the heavy hair coiled into 
a blonde mass on the top of her head, Mme. 
de Burne was dreaming, after her bath. 

A knock at the door disturbed her, and her 
maid entered with a letter. 

She took it, glanced at the writing, and 
opened it eagerly. She read the first few 
lines, then, turning to the servant, said, qui- 
etly: “ I will ring for you in an hour.” 

When she was once more alone her face 
lighted up with a smile of victorious joy. The 
first words had sufficed to show Tier that it 
was a declaration of love from Mariolle. Here 
it was at last. He had resisted much longer 
than she could have believe^ possible. For 
three months she had kept him at her side by 
a great display of grace, attentions, and an 
exposition of charms she had never employed 
with any other. He had seemed distrustful, 
warned, on his guard against her, and against 
all the wiles of her insatiable coquetry. It 
had required numberless confidential conver- 
sations, into which she had thrown all the 


48 


NOTRE CCEVR. 


physical seductions of her being, all the cap- 
tivating efforts of her intellect, beside many 
evenings spent in music, when, in front of 
the still vibrating piano, standing before the 
pages of that music by the great masters, so 
full of soul, they had trembled with the same 
emotions, before she had finally perceived in 
his eyes that look of a conquered man, or the 
supplication of tenderness ready to falter. 
Ah ! how well she knew that look, accom- 
plished coquette that she was. 

How often, with real feline skill and an 
inexhaustible curiosity, she had given birth 
to this secret torturing pain in the eyes of all 
the men whom she had bewitched. It amused 
her so to see them, little by little, invaded, 
conquered, dominated by her invincible 
womanly power of becoming to them the 
unique, the capricious and sovereign idol. 
This had grown on her quietly, like a hidden 
instinct developing itself ; an instinct for war 
and conquest. During her years of marriage, 
a want of reprisal had perhaps created in her 
heart an obscure desire of paying back to 
mankind what she had suffered through one 
of them ; to be in her turn the stronger, to 


NOTRE CCBVR. 


49 


bend the will, to break all resistance, and in 
her turn cause suffering. But above all she 
was born a coquette, and, as soon as she felt 
a free existence, she began to pursue and sub- 
due lovers as a hunter pursues his prey, 
simply to see it fall. Her heart, however, 
was not barren of emotions like those of tender 
and sentimental women. She did not look 
for the undivided love of a man, nor for hap- 
piness in passion. She wished simply to sur- 
round herself with the admiration, homages 
and prostrations of all ; to live in an atmos- 
phere of tenderness. Whoever became a 
frequenter of her house must also become the 
slave of her beauty. No intellectual interest 
could keep her attached to those who resisted 
her coquetries, disdained the cares of love, 
or whose affections were engaged elsewhere. 
One had to love her to remain her friend. 
But, then, she was full of unimaginable cares, 
delicious attentions, and an infinite variety of 
pretty ways, that she might retain about her 
those whom she had captivated. 

Once enlisted in her troop of admirers, she 
considered them hers by right of conquest. 
She governed them with skill according to 

Notre Coeur 4 


50 


NOTRE COS UR. 


their weaknesses, their accomplishments, or 
the nature of their jealousies. They who de- 
manded too much, she expelled at her pleas- 
ure, allowing' them to return when they had 
grown wiser, and imposing severe conditions 
upon them. She amused herself so well at 
this game of seduction that she found as 
much charm in infatuating the old gallants as 
in turning the heads of the younger ones. 

It was said that she regulated her affections 
according to the degree of ardor she had in- 
spired, and big Fresnol, stupid and awkward 
as he was, continued to be one of her favor- 
ites, thanks to the frantic passion that she 
knew and felt possessed him. 

She was not, however, wholly indifferent 
to the qualities of men; she had more than 
once undergone the beginning of enthusiasm, 
known to herself only, and checked as soon 
as it might have become dangerous. 

Each newcomer brought a new note to 
her song of love and to the unknown of her 
nature; artists especially, in whom she dis- 
covered a refinement of coloring, a delicate- 
ness of emotion sharper and finer than in 
others, had several times troubled her, had 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


51 


awakened in her intermittent dreams of great 
loves and long liaisons. But a prey to pru- 
dent fears, undecided, tormented, and distrust- 
ful, she had always jealously guarded herself 
until the moment when her last lover had 
ceased to move her. Moreover, she possessed 
the skeptic eye of the modern young girl, who 
can, in a few weeks, strip the greatest men of 
their prestige. As soon as they became in- 
fatuated with her, and, in their distress of 
heart, abandoned their studied attitudes and 
their habits of display, she saw them all alike, 
poor beings whom she dominated by her se- 
ductive powers. 

In fact, the man whom so perfect a woman 
could have loved, must have possessed innu- 
merable and inestimable qualities. 

Still, she was often wearied. Having no 
love for society, she went there only through 
duty, spending those long evenings sup- 
pressing her yawns and her inclination to 
sleep. Interested in the world only through 
her aggressive caprices and varying curiosity 
for certain things or certain beings ; attach- 
ing herself to them only enough that she 
might not too soon become disgusted with 


52 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


what she had appreciated or admired, and not 
sufficiently to discover the real pleasure in an 
affection or in a taste ; tormented by her 
nerves, and not by her desires ; deprived 
of all the absorbing preoccupations of simple 
or ardent souls, she lived in gay weari- 
ness without even the common faith in happi- 
ness, in quest of distractions only, and already 
crushed by lassitude, although deeming her- 
self satisfied. 

Judging herself to be the most seductive 
and best gifted of women, she thought she 
could not be otherwise than satisfied. Vain 
of that charm, of which she often tried the 
power ; in love with her irregular, odd and 
captivating beauty, sure of the keenness of 
her thought, which made her guess, feel and 
understand a thousand things that others did 
not see ; proud of her wit, appreciated by so 
many superior men, and ignorant of the bound- 
aries of her intellect, she believed herself to be 
an almost unique being, a rare pearl hatched in 
this mediocre world, which seemed a little 
empty and monotonous on account of her own 
superior worth. 

She never suspected that she might herself 


NOTRE C(EVR. 


53 


be the unknown cause of this continual weari- 
ness she suffered, but accused others, and held 
them responsible for her melancholy. If they 
did not succeed in amusing, interesting or 
even in loving her, it was because they were 
wanting in tact and real qualities. “All the 
world is tiresome,” she would laughingly say. 
“ The only tolerable persons are those that 
please me: solely because they do please me.” 

And they pleased her above all by acknowl- 
edging that she was incomparable. Fully 
aware that success is not won without trouble, 
she employed all her energies to entice, and 
found nothing so agreeable as to taste the 
homage of the tender look and of the heart ; 
that violent muscle which is set beating by a 
single word. 

The pains she had taken to conquer Andre 
Mariolle had surprised herself; for she had 
felt on that very first day that she pleased 
him. By degrees she had guessed his nature, 
distrustful, secretly envious, very subtle and 
concentrated; and to overcome his weaknesses 
she had shown him so much regard, prefer- 
ence and natural sympathy, that he had had 
to succumb finally. 


54 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


For a month past she had felt sure of him, 
but, though silent, nervous and uneasy when 
near her, he had still resisted the avowal. 
Oh ! those avowals. At heart she did not 
love them much, for, when they were too 
direct, too expressive, she saw herself obliged 
to quarrel. Twice she had even been obliged 
to become angry and refuse admittance to 
her house. What she particularly loved, 
were those delicate manifestations, half confi- 
dences, discreet allusions and moral prostra- 
tions ; displaying rare tact and exceptional 
dexterity to obtain this reserve of expression 
in her admirers. 

For a month she had awaited and watched 
the lips of Mariolle for that phrase, clear or 
veiled, according to the nature of the man, 
which spoke of an oppressed heartseeking 
relief. 

He had said nothing, but had written. It 
was a long letter, and, as she held it in her 
hand, she trembled with joy. Reclining 
further back in her chair, and allowing her 
slippers to fall on the carpet, she read on. It 
was a surprise; for he told her, in a very clear 
and concise manner, that he did not intend to 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


55 


suffer on her account, knowing her too well to 
become her victim. In very polite phrases, 
interspersed with compliments, through which 
his restrained love was transparent, he 
showed her that he understood her manner 
of treating men who were sufficiently in her 
toils, but that he intended to free himself from 
this servitude by going away. He would 
simply resume his former vagabond life. He 
would go at once. 

It was an eloquent and resolute farewell. 

Indeed, she was greatly surprised in read- 
ing and re-reading these four pages of tender, 
passionate and irritated prose. She then 
arose, replaced her slippers, and walked to 
and fro; her bare arms thrust out of her 
sleeves, her hands half-hidden in the pockets 
of her dressing-gown, with the crushed letter 
tightly clasped in one of them. 

Still giddy from the effect of this unex- 
pected declaration, she was musing: “ This 
young man writes well. His letter is sincere, 
agitated and touching. He writes better than 
Lamarthe ; it does not savor of romance. ” 

She walked to the toilet table and took a 
cigarette from a porcelain vase ; having lighted 


56 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


it, she went toward the mirror, in which she 
saw the reflection of three young women. 
When quite close to it, she stopped, smiled 
and bowed slightly, giving a little toss of 
the head that said: “Very pretty, very 
pretty ! ” She inspected her eyes, showed 
her pretty teeth, raised her arms above her 
head, placed her hand on her hips, and, by 
inclining her head a little, turned her face so 
that she could see her profile in each of the 
three panels. 

There she remained standing lovingly in 
front of herself, enveloped by the triple re- 
flection of her being, which she found so 
charming; enraptured by the sight, seized 
with an egotistical and physical pleasure be- 
fore her own beauty, and relishing it with a 
satisfaction as voluptuous as that of men. 

Her maid, who had often surprised her in 
these daily contemplations of herself, had said, 
maliciously: “Madame looks at herself so 
often that she will soon wear out all the mir- 
rors in the house.” 

But this self-love was the secret of her 
charm and of her power over men. By dint 
of admiring herself, by cultivating the arti- 


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NOTRE CCEUR. 


57 


fices of face and elegance of her person; by 
searching for and finding all that might be of 
advantage to her, discovering those imper- 
ceptible shadings that rendered her charms 
more active and her eyes more odd and ex- 
pressive, and by dint of following all the arti- 
fices which she found attractive to herself, she 
had naturally discovered all that could be 
most pleasing to others. 

Had she been more beautiful and indiffer- 
ent to her beauty, she would not have pos- 
sessed that precipitant seduction toward love 
for all those who had not rebelled at the na- 
ture of her power. 

Becoming somewhat tired of standing thus 
silent, she spoke her thought aloud, and her 
smiling image in the triple mirror moved its 
lips with hers, as she murmured : “ We shall 
see, monsieur.” 

Then, crossing the room and seating her- 
self at the writing-desk, she wrote the fol- 
lowing : 

“ Dear Monsieur Mariolle, come to-morrow at four o’clock. I shall 
be alone, and hope to reassure you in regard to the imaginary danger 
that frightens you. 

“ I call myself your friend, and will prove that I ana such. 

“Michi^le de Burne.” 


58 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


When Andre Mariolle called next day, he 
found her clad in a simple lilac-gray dress as 
melancholy as twilight, with a plain linen col- 
lar fitting as closely around her throat as her 
bodice and skirt fitted around her arms, waist 
and hips. 

She met him with outstretched hand, but 
his face was grave as he kissed it and seated 
himself beside her. Seeing his embarrass- 
ment, she did not break the silence for a few 
moments. Mariolle, not knowing what to 
say, waited for her to speak. 

“Well,” said she at last, “let us come at 
once to the subject which occupies our 
thoughts. You have written me a very inso- 
lent letter, monsieur.” 

“I know it,” he replied, “and beg you will 
excuse it. I am, and always have been, ex- 
cessively and brutally frank with everybody. 
I might have gone away without the mis- 
placed and humiliating explanation I have 
made. But I thought it more loyal to act 
according to my nature, and to count on the 
judgment that I knew you possessed.” 

“Well! well!” she said, in atone of con- 
tented pity. “ What is this folly ” 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


59 


“ I prefer not to speak of it,” he inter- 
rupted. But she would not let him go on. 

“ I have brought you here to speak of it,” 
said she, “ and we shall speak of it until you 
are convinced that you stand in no danger 
whatever.” 

She laughed like a child, and her school- 
girl dress certainly gave her a very childish 
appearance. 

“ I have written you the truth, the sincere 
truth, the terrible truth, that I fear,” he 
murmured. 

” I know all about it,” she added, seriously. 
“All my friends go through that. You also 
wrote that I was a terrible coquette. I admit 
it; but no one has died of that, neither do I 
believe any one has ever suffered much from 
it. It is what Lamarthe calls the crisis. You 
have come to it, but it will pass away, and 
you will then fall back into — how shall we 
say it? — into chronic love. This does not 
hurt, but keeps alive a little fire in all my 
friends, and makes them very devoted, very 
attached, and very faithful to me. Now, am 
I not also sincere, frank, and boastful ? Do 
you know many women who would have 


6o 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


dared say what I have just said to you ? 

She assumed an expression so amusing and 
decided, and at the same time so simple and 
defiant, that he could not help laughing in his 
turn. 

“All your friends,” said he, “are men who 
had often been singed, even before meeting 
you. Baked and hardened, they easily bear 
the heat of the furnace, in which you keep 
them continually, while I, madame, have had 
no such experience; and I have felt for some 
time past that the consequence would be 
terrible if I abandoned myself to the senti- 
ment which was growing in my heart.” 

She suddenly became confidential. Bend- 
ing slightly toward him, and crossing her 
hands on her lap, she said: 

“ Listen to me, for I am serious. It annoys 
me to lose a friend through what I believe to 
be only a chimerical fear. You may love me, 
I admit, but the men of the present do not 
love the women of to-day enough to hurt 
them. Believe me, I know both the one and 
the other.” 

She stopped, then added, with the singular 


NOTRE COS UR. 


6i 


smile of a woman who has spoken the truth 
while believing it to be a lie: 

“Indeed, I am not constructed for blind 
adoration. I am too modern ; I will be a 
friend, a pretty friend, for whom you entertain 
a sincere affection, but nothing more, for I 
will watch over you.” 

Then, in a more serious tone, she con- 
tinued : 

“In any case, I warn you that I am inca- 
pable of truly loving anybody. I will treat you 
like the others, that is, like the more favored 
ones, but never better. I have a horror of 
despots and jealous persons ; I have had to 
bear everything from a husband, but from a 
friend, a simple friend, I will accept none of 
those tyrannies of affection which are the 
misfortune of cordial relations. You see that 
I am very complaisant ; I speak to you like a 
friend, and hide nothing from you. Now, will 
you make the loyal attempt I propose ? If it 
does not suit you, it will be still time to go, 
for, whatever may be the gravity of your case, 
remember that : ‘ The absent lover is a lover 
cured.’ ’’ 

He looked at her, already conquered by 


62 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


her voice, gestures, and the intoxication of 
her presence. Resigned and trembling from 
her close contact, he murmured : 

“ I accept, madame, and, if I suffer, so much 
the worse. It is worth a little suffering to be 
near you.” 

“Now,” said she, interrupting him, “let us 
never speak of it again,” and she passed on 
to less troublesome subjects. 

An hour later he left, tortured, for he loved 
her, and joyful, for she had asked him to 
remain, and he had promised. 



CHAPTER III. 


He was tortured, for he loved her. He 
differed from the vulgar lover to whom the 
idol of his heart appears in an aureole of per- 
fections. He had become attached to her, 
while seeing her with the eyes of a distrust- 
ful, suspicious man, who had never yet been 
wholly captivated. His indolent, penetrating 
and uneasy spirit being always on the de- 
fensive, it had preserved him from passions. 
A few intrigues, two short liaisons that had 
died out from weariness, paid loves broken 
from disgust, and these were all in the history 
of his heart. He had looked on woman as 
being a useful object for those who wished 
children and a well ordered house, and per- 
haps as an object of relative charm for men 
who sought the short-lived amusements of 
love; but this was all. 

When he had met Mme. de Burne he 

63 


64 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


was warned against her by the confidences of 
her friends. What he knew of her interested 
and perplexed him, pleased him, but repelled 
him somewhat. In principle he abhorred 
those players who never paid. After a few 
visits he thought her very amusing, and ani- 
mated by a special and contagious charm; 
the natural and cultivated beauty, at once 
plump and slender, of her graceful person, 
with beautiful arms made to attract, to clasp, 
to entwine, and feet that might be as swift as 
the gazelle, yet so small as to leave no trace 
behind in their flight, seeming like a sym- 
bol of vain hopes. Moreover, in his rela- 
tions with her he had tasted a pleasure he 
had believed unknown in worldly conversa- 
tions. Gifted with an intelligence full of fire, 
whimsical and of a caressing irony, she some- 
times allowed herself to be impressed by sen- 
timental, intellectual or plastic influences, as 
if her mocking gayety still bore traces of the 
secular shadow of the poetic tendencies of her 
ancestors. And all this rendered her exqui- 
site. 

Desirous of conquest, she flattered him, and 
his visits became more and more frequent ; 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


65 


attracted thither by a growing need of seeing 
more and more of her. It was a power ema- 
nating from her that took possession of him ; 
an attraction of charms, of looks, of smiles, of 
words, although he often left her irritated by 
what she had said or done. 

More, he felt himself invaded by that inex- 
pressible fluid with which a woman penetrates 
and enslaves men. He understood and suf- 
fered through her nature, which he ardently 
desired so different. 

Nevertheless he had been enticed and over- 
come in spite of himself and of his better 
judgment, more perhaps by what he con- 
demned in her than by her real qualities. 

That coquetry which she used openly as 
she would a fan, displaying or refolding it in 
the face of all according to the men who 
pleased or spoke to her ; that manner of 
never taking anything seriously which he 
had found so amusing at first, but now found 
threatening; that constant desire for distrac- 
tions, for something new, which was insatiable 
in her ever- wearied heart — all these so exas- 
perated him at times, that, when away from 
her, he would resolve to lessen his visits until 

Notre Coeur 5 


66 


NOTRE COE UR. 


the day when he might suppress them alto- 
gether. 

The next day, however, he would search 
for a pretext to see her. What he felt above 
all, as he saw himself more and more over- 
come, was the insecurity of this love and the 
certainty of suffering pain. 

Oh ! he was not blind. Little by little he 
went deeper into this sentiment, like a man 
who drowns from fatigue because his bark has 
foundered and he is too far from the shore. 
He knew her as well as it was possible, the 
prescience of passion had over-excited his 
vision, and he could not prevent himself from 
continually thinking of her. With an inde- 
fatigable obstinacy he constantly sought to 
analyze, to discover, the unknown depths of 
this woman’s soul, this incomprehensible mix- 
ture of gay intelligence and disenchantments, 
of reason and childishness, of affectionate 
appearances and inconstancy, all these con- 
tradictory impulses united and linked together, 
forming an anomalous being, both alluring 
and misleading. 

But why did she entice him thus ? he asked 
himself indefinitely, not understanding it, for. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


67 


with his thoughtful, observing and truly mod- 
est nature, he must logically have searched 
in a woman the antique and tranquil qualities 
of tender charms, and of constant attachment, 
which assures the happiness of men. 

In this woman he recognized something 
quite unexpected ; a sort of new beginner of 
the human race, one of those creatures who 
are the commencement of a generation not at 
all like we have hitherto known, and who 
spread around them, even through their im- 
perfections, the formidable attraction of a 
warning. 

After the passionate and romantic dreamers 
of the Restoration, had come those joyous 
ones of the Imperial epoch, convinced of the 
reality of pleasures ; then, behold, appeared a 
new transformation of that eternal woman ; a 
perfected being of undecided sensibilities, of 
unquiet soul, agitated and irresolute, who 
seemed to have already passed through all 
the narcotics with which we either appease or 
excite the nerves, through the chloroform 
which stupefies, through the ether and mor- 
phine that lash the dreams, extinguish the 
senses and lull the emotions. 


68 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


He tasted in her the savor of a fictitious 
creature accustomed to charm by her attrac- 
tions. She was a rare object of luxury, at- 
tractive, exquisite and delicate, on which the 
gaze rested, before which the heart was agi- 
tated by desires, as tempting viands prepared 
and exhibited in a glass case always excite the 
hunger. 

Having become convinced that he was de- 
scending the depths of an abyss, he began to 
reflect in terror at the dangers that sur- 
rounded him. What would become of him ? 
What would she do ? She would assuredly 
do what she had done with the others — she 
would bring him to that state when we follow 
the caprices of a woman as a dog follows the 
footsteps of his master, and she would classify 
him in her collection of more or less illus- 
trious favorites. Had there not been one, a 
single one, whom she had loved ; truly loved 
for a month, a day, an hour even, in one of 
those quickly repressed impulses into which 
her heart sometimes betrayed her ? 

He spoke of her incessantly with her other 
friends, when, after dinner, they were warmed 
by contact with her. He felt that they were 


NOTRE CCEVR. 69 

all Still troubled, discontented, miserable, like 
men whom no reality had satisfied. 

No; she had loved none among these 
paraders for public curiosity; while he, who 
was nothing in their midst, whose name in a 
crowded drawing-room caused no turning of 
heads nor of eyes in his direction; of what 
use was he to her? None, nothing but an 
unknown, a man who becomes the mere 
commonplace friend of a fashionable woman; 
useful, but not brilliant, like wine diluted with 
water. 

Had he been a celebrated man, he would 
have accepted this role, which his celebrity 
would have rendered less humiliating; but 
unknown, he could not submit to it: there- 
fore he wrote to bid her farewell. 

When he received her short reply, he was 
moved as if from a great happiness, and, when 
she had made him promise to remain, he felt 
as if a deliverance had come to him. 

A few days passed without bringing any 
change; but, when the calm which followed 
the crisis had passed away, he felt his desire 
for her growing and burning within him. He 
had resolved to never again speak of his love 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


70 

to her, but he had not promised to abstain from 
writing. So one night, being unable to sleep 
in this tormented state of incessant love, his 
thoughts ever recurring to her, he seated him- 
self at his desk, almost in spite of his reasoning, 
and began to express in writing the feelings 
that agitated him. It was not a letter: it was 
a series of notes, phrases, thoughts, and 
paroxysms of sufferings expressed in words. 

This calmed him, relieving him somewhat 
of the agony that tortured him, and he soon 
fell asleep. 

As soon as he awakened the next morning, 
he reread those pages, and, finding them very 
touching, placed them in an envelope, 
addressed and sealed it. He would not post 
it until late, that she might receive it on 
awakening the next morning. 

He felt assured that she would not be 
frightened by a few sheets of paper. The 
most timid of women show great indulgence 
toward a letter that speaks of sincere love. 
And these letters, when written by a trembling 
hand, overflowing eyes and distracted fea- 
tures, have in turn an invincible power over 
their hearts. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


71 


Toward evening he went to her house, 
wondering how she had received it, and what 
she would say to him. He found M. de Pra- 
don smoking a cigarette and chatting with 
his daughter. He often spent hours in this 
manner, and always treated her more as an 
admirer than as a father. There was in 
their relations and affections that shade of 
homage which she rendered herself, and 
exacted from others. 

Her face lighted up with a gleam of 
pleasure as she saw Mariolle enter, and she 
extended her hand with a smile that said: “ I 
am pleased with you.” 

Mariolle hoped they would soon be alone. 
But M. de Pradon did not move. Although 
he had long since ceased to be troubled 
about his daughter, knowing her character 
and strength of mind, he nevertheless 
watched over her with a curious and some- 
what marital anxiety. He wished to learn 
what chance of permanent success this new 
friend might have. Would he become a 
simple bird of passage — like all the others ? 
or only a member of the ordinary circle ? 

Consequently he remained, and Mariolle, 


72 


NOTRE cm UR. 


seeing he could not dislodge him, decided on 
his course of action. He would try and 
win favor with him, considering a friendly in- 
terest or even a neutral footing better than 
open hostility. He therefore exerted himself 
to be gay and amusing, carefully refraining 
from appearing as a suitor. 

Mme. de Burne smiled contentedly, think- 
ing: “He is not so stupid, and he is really a 
skillful comedian;” while M. de Bradon was 
saying to himself: “ He is an agreeable man, 
of whom my daughter cannot make a fool, as 
she did of those idiots.” And when Mariolle 
arose to go, he left them both charmed by his 
visit. 

But he came away with despair in his heart, 
understanding full well the thralldom in which 
she held him, and feeling that he was knock- 
ing in vain at this heart; like a prisoner 
striking his fist on the iron door. 

He was aware of his bondage, but no 
longer tried to free himself from it. As he 
could not evade this fatality, he decided to 
have recourse to artifice; he would be patient, 
tenacious, and dissimulate; he would conquer 
her by skill, by that homage for which she 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


73 


thirsted, by that adoration which intoxicated 
■her, by that voluntary servitude which he 
would assume. 

Evidently his letter had pleased her. He 
would write again. He did write. Nearly 
every evening on his return home, at that 
hour when the mind, animated by all the 
agitations of the day, looks upon what inter- 
ests or moves it, in a sort of hallucination, he 
would seat himself at the table and exalt 
himself by thinking of her. The germ of 
poetry that so many indolent men allow to be 
dead within them, was awakened in his soul 
by this enthusiasm. By dint of writing the 
same things or rather the sarnie thing, his 
love, under forms that renewed the daily repe- 
tition of his desires, he fired his ardor in this 
occupation of tender literature. During the 
entire day he sought and found for her those 
irresistible expressions of passionate emotion 
that escape like sparks from the brain. Thus 
he fanned the flame that burned in his heart, 
for truly passionate love letters are more dan- 
gerous to the writer than to the one who 
receives them. By keeping himself in this 
state of effervescence, by firing his blood and 


74 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


filling his soul with one single thought, he 
lost by degrees, the notion of the reality of 
this woman. No longer judging her as he 
had known her formerly, he now only saw her 
through the melody of his phrases, and all he 
wrote each night became to him so many 
realities. This daily work of idealization 
clothed her with all the charms he had 
dreamed. His former resistances fell before 
the undeniable affection shown him by Mme. 
de Burne. Indeed, at this moment, although 
nothing had been said, she preferred him to 
all others, and showed it openly to him. And 
he believed, with a sort of madness born of 
hope, that she would yet come to love him. 

In truth, she was succumbing with a com- 
plicated and ingenuous joy, to the seduction of 
his letters. No one had ever adulated and 
cherished her in this manner, with so much 
reserve. No one had ever had that charm- 
ing idea of having this breakfast of sentiment 
brought on a silver salver to her bed each 
morning by her maid, and what was most 
precious of all, was, that he never spoke of it, 
appearing , to ignore it. He was the coldest 
among the friends in her drawing-room. 


NOTRE C(EUR. 75 

never even alluding to the shower of tender- 
ness with which he covered her in secret. 

She had received many love-letters before, 
but in an entirely different tone, less reserved, 
more pressing, savoring more of the nature 
of a command. 

During three months, his three months of 
crisis, Lamarthe had consecrated to her the 
pretty correspondence of a passionate novelist 
who dabbles in literature. In a special 
drawer of her secretary she had these grace- 
ful and seductive epistles, penned to a 
woman by a truly affectionate writer, who 
had caressed her with his pen until the day 
when he had given up all hope of success. 

Mariolle’s letters were different. They 
were of a concentration of desire so ener- 
getic, of a sincerity of expression so true, of 
a submission so complete, of a devotion that 
promised to be so durable, that she received, 
opened, and tasted them with a pleasure such 
as no writing had ever given her. 

This increased her affection for him. She 
invited him to come more frequently, espe- 
cially as he preserved this absolute discretion 
in their relations, seeming to l|rget, while 


76 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


speaking to her, that he had ever made use 
of a sheet of paper to tell her of his adora- 
tion. Moreover, she considered the situation 
original, worthy of a novel, and found, in her 
profound satisfaction at being near this being 
who loved her thus, a sort of fervent active 
sympathy through which she appreciated him 
in a particular manner. 

Until now, in all the hearts that she had 
troubled, she had encountered, in spite of the 
vanity of her coquetry, other and outside pre- 
occupations. She did not reign alone, she 
found and saw other powerful motives which 
did not concern her. Jealous of music with 
Massival, of literature with Lamarthe, there 
always had existed something to divide her 
sway in the souls of ambitious men, of men of 
renown, or of artists, for whom their profes- 
sion is a mistress from which no thing or 
person can detach them, she now met, for the 
first time, one to whom she was everything. 
Assuredly big Fresnol loved her as much, but, 
then, he was only big Fresnol. She had never 
dominated over any one in this manner, and 
her egotistical gratitude to the man who gave 
her this triumph showed signs of tenderness. 


NOTRE CaSUR. 


77 


She had need of him henceforth, need of his 
presence, his regard, his servitude, his do- 
mesticated love. If he flattered her vanity- 
less than others, he flattered more those 
sovereign exigencies that govern the soul 
and body of coquettes ; her pride and her 
instincts of domination, those ferocious in- 
stincts of the calm woman. 

Like a country of which we take posses- 
sion, she, little by little, engrossed his life by 
a succession of little invasions, more and 
more numerous each day. She organized 
fetes, theater parties, restaurant dinners, and 
dragged him behind her with the satisfaction 
of a conqueror, being unable to do without 
him, or perhaps without the slavery to which 
she had reduced him. 

He followed her, happy to feel himself thus 
cherished, caressed, by her eyes, her voice, 
and her caprices ; he lived in a transport of 
loving desire that excited and burned him like 
a violent fever. 


END OF PART FIRST. 


PART II. 


CHAPTER I. 


The sound of wheels at the door made 
Mariolle’s heart beat violently with the hope 
that Mme. de Burne had at last returned, 
and, when he heard hurrying footsteps toward 
the apartment, he no longer doubted it. 

Early that morning he had received a mes- 
sage bidding him come to her at once, and, 
although he had hastened to obey the sum- 
mons, she had already gone out for her daily 
drive when he reached the house. 

He was now waiting in that drawing-room 
where he so loved to be, where everything 
possessed a charm for him; but now, as he 
found himself alone, an oppression of the 
heart, a nervousness, seized him, through the 

78 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


79 


fear that some unforeseen obstacle might pre- 
vent her return, and delay their interview 
until the next day. 

She came into the room, still wearing her 
hat, and looking flushed and pleased. 

“I have news for you, monsieur!” she 
exclaimed, as she entered. 

“Indeed, madame!” 

“Yes,” continued she, laughing; “I am 
going to spend a few weeks in the country.” 

“You seem pleased to go,” he said, in a 
voice that betrayed the anguish her sudden 
announcement had caused in his heart. 

“Yes; let us sit down, and I will tell you 
all about it,” she answered. “You know, or 
rather you do not know, that my uncle, M. 
Valsaci, has a country house at Avranches, 
where he spends the greater part of his life 
with his wife and children, being inspector- 
in-chief of bridges in that district. We have 
always spent a part of each summer with 
them, but this year I had no wish to go. He 
insisted, however, and even became angry. 
Papa, who is terribly jealous, and declares 
that I am compromising myself with you, 
also insists that we should go, and go at once. 


8o 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


He says you come here too often. But never 
mind, I will arrange that.” 

“Well, then, as I was saying before, papa 
scolded me, and made me promise to go to 
Avranches for a time. We leave Tuesday 
morning. What do you think of it ? ” 

“ I am quite overcome,” he replied. 

“ Is that all ?” said she, reproachfully. 
“What can I do ? I certainly cannot pre- 
vent you from going.” 

“ Can you not think of some plan ? ” 

“ Why — no — I can think of none. Can 
you ? ” 

“ I have an idea, and it is this. Avranches 
is not far from Mont-Saint-Michel. Have 
you seen Mont-Saint-Michel ? ” 

“ No, madame, I have not.” 

“ Well, next Friday you must suddenly 
become inspired with the desire to see that 
wonderful place. On your way there you 
will stop at Avranches, and on Saturday 
evening, let us say at sunset, you will take a 
stroll in the public garden overlooking the 
bay. We shall meet there by chance. Papa 
will make a scene of course, but that does 
not matter.” 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


“ I shall organize a party including the 
whole family, to visit the abbey next day. 
You must show a great deal of enthusiasm, 
and be as charming as you- know how to be 
when you wish it. Ingratiate yourself with 
my aunt, and invite us all to dine with you at 
the hotel near the abbey, where we shall also 
spend the night. Next day we will part; you 
will return by St. Malo, and a week later I 
shall be back in Paris. Is it not well 
imagined and planned ? And am I not ami- 
able and kind to you ? ” 

“You are all that I love best in the world,” 
he murmured, in a burst of gratitude. 

“ Nonsense ! ” exclaimed she. 

Their eyes met for an instant. She smiled, 
and in that smile she conveyed her gratitude 
for his devotion, and a lively, sincere sym- 
pathy, almost akin to love. He contemplated 
her with devouring eyes; he wanted to throw 
himself at her feet, to kiss the hem of her 
dress, to cry out something that she might 
understand what he could not express in 
words, to let her see his love; his terrible and 
delicious love, which filled his heart and 


Notre Coeur 6 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


soul with such unutterable pain, because he 
could not show it. 

But as the marksman guesses that his 
bullet has made a hole through the black speck 
in the target, so she guessed all that was in 
his heart. He was filled with thoughts of 
her, of her only. She possessed him more 
entirely than she possessed herself, and she 
found him charming and was happy. 

“Then, it is understood,” said she, gayly. 

“Yes, madame ; it is understood,” he mur- 
mured, in a voice choked with emotion. 

After a short silence she resumed, ab- 
ruptly ; 

“You must leave me now. I hurried back 
solely to tell you this. I have still four or 
five places to visit before dinner, and, as I go 
day after to-morrow, I shall be busy until my 
departure.” 

He arose at once, overwhelmed with pain, 
he, whose only wish was to be always near 
her, and, having kissed her hand, he withdrew, 
heartsore but hopeful. 

The next four days passed very slowly for 
him. He dragged through their weary length 
without seeing any one in Paris, preferring 


NOTRE CCEUR. 83 

silence and solitude to the company of his 
friends. 

He took the eight o’clock express Friday 
morning. He had slept but little on the pre- 
vious night, as the near approach of the hour of 
departure rendered him feverish and uneasy. 
His dark, silent chamber, in which he heard 
nothing but the noise of passing vehicles, 
oppressed him like a prison during the night. 

As the first faint streaks of the gray and 
misty dawn streamed in through the closed 
curtains, he jumped from his bed, opened the 
window and looked at the sky. He had been 
haunted by the fear of bad weather, but the 
sky was calm and beautiful, and a slight mist 
presaged a warm day. He dressed hurriedly, 
and was ready two hours too soon. He was 
impatient to leave the house, to be on his way, 
and he dispatched his servant for a fiacre 
before he was half dressed through fear of 
not finding any. 

The first jolts of the vehicle were for him 
so many shocks of happiness ; but, when he 
reached the station, and found that he had still 
fifty minutes to wait for the departure of the 
train, his nervousness returned. 


84 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


He found an empty compartment, and, hav- 
ing engaged the whole of it, gave himself up 
to his dreams. When he felt himself in mo- 
tion, gliding toward her, carried away by the 
swift, rapid movement of the express, his 
ardor redoubled, and he found himself pos- 
sessed by the foolish desire of pushing with 
his two hands against the partition of the 
compartment to increase its speed. 

He remained in this helpless and tormented 
mood until the middle of; the day; but, when 
they had finally passed Argentin, his eyes 
were attracted by the beauty of the Norman 
scenery. 

They were traversing a long, undulating 
country, interspersed with small valleys, where 
the cottages of the peasants, the green fields 
and beautiful orchards, were surrounded by 
tall trees, whose leaves glistened under the 
rays of the sun. It was near the last days of 
July, during that vigorous season in which 
earth, that powerful nurse, gives forth its sap 
and its life. These orchards, dotted here and 
there with cattle, separated and linked by 
high, leafy walls, succeeded each other in- 


NOTRE CCEUR. 85 

definitely through this fresh country, whose 
soil seemed to sweat cider and flesh. 

Amid the tall poplars, almost hidden under 
the overhanging willows, glided innumerable 
narrow rivers — small streams that sparkled 
through the trees for a moment, then disap- 
peared only to appear further on, bathing the 
whole country with a luxuriant fertility. 

This rapid and continuous defile of beauti- 
ful country enchanted him, and distracted his 
thoughts for a few hours. 

But when he had changed cars at Folligny 
his impatience returned with renewed vio- 
lence, and during the last forty minutes of the 
journey he looked at his watch at least twenty 
times. He eagerly watched their progress 
through the country, and was at last greeted 
by the sight of the rising ground on which 
stood the town where she awaited him. The 
train had been delayed, and one hour only 
separated him from the moment he was to 
meet her, by chance, in the public garden. 

He was the only passenger in the hotel 
omnibus, and they were soon slowly ascend-, 
ing the steep road leading to the top of an 
eminence which was crowned by houses, giv- 


86 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


ing it the appearance of a fortified place from 
a distance. Avranches was an old and pretty 
town of Normandy, with small dwellings, 
closely resembling each other, and grouped 
regularly and with precision, giving the place 
an air of ancient pride and modest ease. 

As soon as Mariolle reached the hotel he 
threw his traveling-bag into his room and 
inquired the way to the botanical garden. 
Although it was still early, he lost no time, 
but hurried on in the hope that she might 
already be there. 

When he reached the gate he saw that the 
garden was empty, or nearly so. Three old 
men were walking about indolently, leisurely 
taking their evening stroll, and a family of 
English children, boys and girls, were play- 
ing around their governess. 

With a beating heart he walked on, carefully 
scrutinizing the paths he crossed. At last he 
emerged in a broad path which cut the gar- 
den in two, and which was fringed on each 
side by dark green elms, whose foliage formed 
an arch in the center ; he then followed this 
path for a short distance, and, as he reached a 
terrace looking toward the horizon, all thoughts 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


87 


of her who had brought him here, were sud- 
denly driven from him by the sight that met 
his eyes. 

At the foot of the eminence on which he 
stood, was a vast sandy plain that stretched 
far away and mingled in the distance with the 
sea and the sky. 

A river ran through this sandy desert, and 
the numerous puddles of dead water left by 
the receding tide were glistening under the 
rays of the flaming sun, and dotting it with 
luminous patches that seemed like open spaces 
on another interior sky. 

In the center of this yellow plain, and 
about twelve or fifteen kilometers from the 
shore, arose a fantastic pyramid, or monu- 
mental profile of pointed rocks, crowned by 
a cathedral. 

It had for a neighbor on these immense 
downs only a dry rock, round backed, and 
crouching on the moving sands, the “ Tombe- 
laine.” 

Further off in the faint outline of the mov- 
ing currents, partly submerged rocks showed 
their brown crests ; and the eye, continuing 
the circle of the horizon toward the right. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


descried the vast green stretch of Norman 
country, so covered by trees that It had the 
appearance of an unlimited forest in contrast 
with this sandy solitude. It was the whole 
of nature offering itself in one glance, in one 
site, in its grandeur, in its power, in its fresh- 
ness and in all its grace ; and the eye went 
from this vision of forest to the apparition of 
that mountain of granite, the solitary inhabit- 
ant of the sands which stood forth, a strange 
Gothic figure, on this immense beach. 

Mariolle was a lover of nature, and in his 
younger days he had often trembled before 
the surprises which unknown lands reveal to 
the traveler; he was now so enraptured that 
he stood motionless, so moved, so softened in 
spirit, as to almost forget his lacerated heart. 
But the sound of a vibrating bell recalled him 
to the sense of his sufferings and his longing 
to meet her. The garden was still almost 
deserted, the English children had disap- 
peared, and the three old men only remained, 
still continuing their monotonous walk. He 
was restless, and began to imitate them. 

He was sure she would soon come; in a few 
moments, perhaps, he would see her at the end 


NOTRE CCEUR, 


89 


of one of those paths that terminated at this 
marvelous terrace. He would recognize her 
figure, [her gait, then her features and her 
smile, and then he would hear her voice. 
What happiness ! Oh ! what happiness ! He 
felt her near presence somewhere, as yet in- 
visible, undiscoverable, but thinking of him 
also, knowing they would soon meet again. 

At this moment he almost cried out. A 
blue parasol, only the top of a blue parasol 
gliding along the wall; it was hers without 
doubt. A little boy rolling a hoop in front of 
him appeared, then two ladies — he recog- 
nized her — then two men, her father and 
another gentleman. She was dressed en- 
tirely in blue, like a spring sky. Oh, yes, he 
recognized her before he even saw her face, 
but he dared not go to her, feeling that he 
would certainly stammer and blush, and be 
unable to find words to explain this chance 
meeting to the suspicious eyes of M. de 
Pradon. 

He, nevertheless, walked in their direction, 
with a far-away look in his eyes, lost in the 
contemplation of the distant sea. She soon 
caught sight of him, however, and called out. 


90 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


without even taking the trouble of affecting 
surprise: 

“ Good-day, Monsieur Mariolle. It is very 
beautiful, is it not ? ” 

Astounded by this mode of proceeding, he 
scarcely knew what to say, but managed at 
last to stammer, “Ah! it is you, madame. 
How fortunate I am to meet you here. I am 
admiring this delicious country.” 

“And you have chosen the time when I am 
here,” she rejoined, smiling; “how very ami- 
able on your part.” 

She then presented him to her companions. 
“One of my best friends, Monsieur Mariolle; 
my aunt, Mme. Valasci; my uncle, who makes 
bridges.” 

After the first greetings were exchanged, 
M. de Pradon and the young man shook hands 
coldly, and they then resumed their walk. 

She had placed him between herself and 
her aunt, at the same time giving him a rapid 
glance, warning him to be on his guard. 

“What do you think of the country?” she 
asked, after a short silence. 

“I have never seen anything so beautiful,” 
he replied. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


91 


“Ah! had you spent a few days here, as I 
have done, you would feel how it enraptures 
one. Indeed, it possesses an inexpressible 
charm. These regular traces, left by the sea 
on the sands, this grand, never-ceasing move- 
ment, bathing this vast plain twice a day, and 
which rolls in so rapidly that a race-horse 
could not fly fast enough to escape it — this 
extraordinary spectacle, given us by heaven, 
so carries me away that I scarcely know my 
self. Is it not true, aunt? ” 

Mme. Valsaci, a gray-haired old lady, 
highly respected in the province as the wife 
of the esteemed chief engineer, declared that 
she had never seen her niece in such a state 
of enthusiasm, and added, after a few moments 
of reflection: 

“ It is not surprising, when one has hardly 
ever seen or admired anything but the deco- 
rations of theaters. ” 

“ But I go to Trouville or to Dieppe almost 
every season,” protested her niece. 

“We go to Dieppe or Trouville to meet 
friends. The sea there is merely a bathing 
place for lovers,” added the old lady, laugh- 
ing, and evidently without malice. 


92 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


They turned, and went back slowly in the 
direction of the terrace. This place seemed 
to possess an irresistible attraction, for the 
promenaders always returned to it from all 
parts of the garden, like balls rolling down a 
declivity. The setting sun spread a haze of 
yellow gold, light and transparent, behind the 
tall outlines of the abbey, which became more 
and more clouded, like a gigantic chair under 
a glittering veil. But all this was unheeded 
by Mariolle; he saw only the adorable figure 
at his side enveloped in a cloud of blue. 
Never had he thought her half as delicious. 
She was changed, yet he could not define in 
what the change consisted. The freshness of 
this country, of this sky, and this verdure, 
seemed to have imparted itself to her being, 
to be reflected in her eyes, and in her hair, 
and even to have penetrated her soul. Never 
had he known and loved her thus. 

He walked on in silence at her side; the 
rustle of her dress, the occasional touch of 
her arm, and the expression of their eyes as 
they met, overcame him as completely as if 
they had killed his personality within him. 
He felt himself suddenly destroyed by the 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


93 


•*» 

contact of this woman, absorbed by her until 
he no longer was anything; nothing but a 
desire, nothing but an appeal, nothing but an 
adoration. She had suppressed all his former 
being as effectually as we destroy a letter by 
flame. 

She saw and understood her absolute vic- 
tory, and it touched her more keenly in this 
atmosphere of the sea filled with brilliancy 
and life. 

“I am so glad to see you,” she murmured, 
without looking up, then added, aloud: 

“ How long do you remain here ? ” 

“ I shall remain two days ; that is, counting 
to-day as one,” he replied, and then, turning 
to her aunt, said : 

“Will Mme. Valsaci honor me by spend- 
ing the day to-morrow at Mont-Saint-Michel, 
accompanied by her husband ? ” 

Mme. de Burne hurriedly interposed. 

“ I will not allow her to refuse, since we have 
been so fortunate as to meet you here.” 

“ I will consent with pleasure, on condition 
that you dine with us this evening,” replied 
the old lady. 

As he bowed his acceptance he felt a sud- 


94 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


den rapture, such as seizes us when we re- 
ceive the news we have long hoped for. 
What had he obtained ? What novelty had 
happened in his life? Nothing; and yet he 
felt himself filled with the intoxication of an 
undefinable presentiment. 

They walked on the terrace for a long time 
awaiting the sunset to enjoy the spectacle of 
the dark shadow of the Mont clearly defined 
against the illuminated horizon. 

They conversed on simple subjects, repeat- 
ing all that may be said before a stranger, 
and contenting themselves with expressive 
looks whenever their eyes met. 

They then went to the villa, which was 
situated on the outskirts of Avranches, in the 
midst of a pretty garden overlooking the bay. 

Wishing to be discreet, and troubled, more- 
over, by the cold, almost hostile manner of M. 
de Pradon, Mariolle left the villa soon after 
dinner. 

As he touched her hand with his lips, Mme. 
de Burne repeated twice. In a low voice : “ To- 
morrow, to-morrow.” 

As soon as he had gone M. and Mme. 
Valsaci, true to their provincial habits, pro- 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


95 


posed retiring for the night. Mme. de Burne 
having announced her intention of walking 
in the garden before retiring, her father 
offered to accompany her. 

She threw a shawl over her shoulders, and 
they walked side by side on the wide sandy 
paths of the garden, which the full moon 
lighted up like so many sinuous rivers, through 
the thick foliage of the trees. 

After a somewhat long silence, M. de 
Pradon said, in a low voice: 

“My dear child, you will do me the justice 
to admit that I have never troubled you with 
advice.” 

She felt that a storm was coming, and was 
already prepared for it. 

“I beg your pardon, papa,” said she, “you 
have already given me one at least.” 

“ I ! ” he exclaimed. 

“Yes, you,” she answered. 

“An advice relative to your happi- 

ness ? ” he added. 

“Yes, and moreover a very bad one. 
Therefore I have decided, that, if you give me 
any more, I shall not follow it.” 

“ What advice have I given you ? ” he asked. 


96 


^NOTRE CCEUR. 


“ You advised me to marry M. de Burne, 
which proves that you are wanting in judg- 
ment, in penetration, in the knowledge of 
mankind in general, and of your daughter in 
particular/’ 

He was silent for a few moments, through 
surprise and embarrassment; then he con- 
tinued, slowly: 

“Yes, I admit I was mistaken in that. But 
I am sure that I cannot be mistaken in the 
paternal advice that I owe you to-day.” 

“ Go on,” said she; “ I will give it the con- 
sideration it deserves.” 

“You are on the point of compromising 
yourself,” said he. 

“ With M. Mariolle, undoubtedly ? ” she 
asked, with a forced laugh. 

“Yes, with M. Mariolle/’ he assented. 

“You forget,” rejoined she, “ that I have 
already compromised myself with M. George 
de Maltry, with M. Massival, with M. Gaston 
de Lamarthe, and a dozen others of whom 
you have been jealous, for a man cannot be 
attentive and devoted to me without my whole 
troupe becoming furious, with you, whom na- 


NOTRE CCEUR. 97 

ture has given me as a father and guardian, 
at their head.” 

“No, no,” he interrupted quickly; “I do 
not mean that you have ever compromised 
yourself with any one; on the contrary, you 
displayed a great deal of tact and dignity in 
your relations with your friends.” 

She interrupted him almost angrily. 

“ My dear papa, I am no longer a child, 
and I assure you that I will not compromise 
myself with M. Mariolle any more than I have 
with the others ; do not fear. However, I 
admit that I invited him to meet me here. I 
find him charming, intelligent, and much less 
selfish than the others. This was your own 
opinion also, until you thought you had dis- 
covered my preference for him. Oh ! you are 
not as sharp-witted as you think ! I know 
you well also, and could say a great deal if I 
wished. But to return to the subject : M. 
Mariolle pleases me, and I thought that an 
excursion with him would be a very enjoyable 
affair, and it would be very stupid to deprive 
myself of any amusement when there is no 
danger ; and there will be no danger of com- 
promising myself, since you will be there.” 

Notre Coeur 7 


98 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


She was laughing gayly now, knowing well 
that each word struck home. His long sus- 
pected jealousy was now a certainty. This 
discovery gave her the advantage over him, 
and flattered her insatiable vanity. 

He was silent, embarrassed and irritated, 
feeling also that she had guessed that his 
paternal solicitude sprung from a mysterious 
jealousy, which he was unwilling to acknowl- 
edge even to himself. 

“ Do not be alarmed,” she added. “ It is 
the most natural thing in the world to make 
an excursion to Mont-Saint-Michel at this 
season of the year, accompanied by my uncle, 
my aunt, my father, and a friend. It will not 
be known, moreover; and, even if it should 
become known, no one can find fault. When 
we have returned to Paris I shall install this 
friend in the ranks with the others. ” 

“ Veryjwell,” he replied; “ let us forget that 
I have spoken;” and a few minutes later he 
added: 

“ Let us return to the house; I am tired, and 
will go to bed.” 

“ I shall remain here a little longer,” she 
replied, “ the night is so beautiful.” 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


99 


“ Do not remain too late,"’ he said, inten- 
tionally. “ One never knows whom they 
may meet.” 

“ I shall not leave the garden,” she replied. 

“Good night, then, my dear child,” said he, 
kissing her lightly on the forehead. 

She seated herself on a little rustic bench, 
sheltered by a large oak tree. The night was 
warm, filled with the odors of the fields and 
of the sea; and the full moon was partly ob- 
scured by the misty vapors that veiled the 
bay and hid the downs which the rising tide 
had already covered. 

Michele de Burne, her hands crossed on 
her lap, her eyes fixed on the distance^ tried 
to look into her soul, through a mist as im- 
penetrable as that over the sands. 

How many times, when seated before her 
mirror in her dressing-room in Paris, she had 
already asked herself : “ What do I love ? 
What do I desire ? What do I hope for ? and 
What am I ? ” 

Besides the pleasure of being beautiful, and 
that profound desire of pleasing every one, 
which she really greatly enjoyed, she had 
never felt in her heart anything but quickly 


lOO 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


extinguished curiosities. Moreover, she was 
not ignorant of her own character, having 
become too much habituated to study her 
face and all her person, to not also examine 
her heart. Until now she had taken but a 
vague interest in all that moved those who 
were powerless to inspire her love, and who, 
at the most, only amused her. 

Nevertheless, each time she had felt within 
her the beginning of an attraction for any one ; 
each time a rival had contended with her the 
affections of the man whom she wished to 
conquer, and had moved her feminine in- 
stincts, or had caused the fever of love to 
burn in her veins, she had found, in these 
futile attempts at loving, an emotion much 
more ardent than the mere pleasure of suc- 
cess. But this was not lasting, and why? 
Because she tired of it, became disgusted, 
and perhaps, because she understood the 
object too clearly. Everything that at first 
pleased her in a man, all that animated, 
agitated or moved her, soon became insipid 
and commonplace. They all resembled each 
other without being quite similar; and none 
had yet appeared gifted with the nature and 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


lOI 


qualities necessary to awaken love in her 
heart. 

And why was this ? Was the fault theirs 
or her own ? Were they wanting in what she 
expected ? or did she lack the qualities 
necessary to love ? Do we love because we 
meet a being whom we think was truly 
created for us ? or is it simply because we are 
born with the faculty of loving ? It some- 
times seemed to her that the hearts of others 
possessed arms, like the body ; loving and 
outstretched arms, that attracted and en- 
twined, and that her own was armless, having 
nothing but the eyes. 

Superior men often become enamored of 
women who are unworthy of them ; without 
intelligence or accomplishments, sometimes 
even without beauty. Why and how ? What 
a mystery ! This crisis, then, is not due merely 
to a providential meeting, but to a sort of 
germ we carry within us, and which grows or 
comes to life suddenly. 

She had often listened to confidences, she 
had surprised secrets, and had even seen 
with her own eyes the sudden transfiguration 


102 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


caused by that intoxication of the soul, and 
she had often thought of it all. 

In the world, amid the bustle of visits, 
amusements and all the little stupidities that 
interest us through sheer idleness, she had 
sometimes discovered, with an envious sur- 
prise, and almost with incredulity, that there 
existed beings, men and women, in whom 
something extraordinary had undoubtedly 
taken place. They did not show it in a noisy 
manner, but, with her delicate perception, she 
guessed and felt it. In their smiles, and more 
especially in their eyes, was reflected some- 
thing inexpressible, something of delicious 
happiness. It was a joy of the soul, impreg- 
nating the body, and illuminating their being. 

And, without knowing why, she had envied 
them. Lovers had always vexed her, and 
that profound irritation inspired in her by 
those whose hearts beat with passion, she 
had invariably qualified as disgust. She be- 
lieved that she recognized them with an 
exceptional surety of penetration, and with 
promptitude ; and in fact she had often dis- 
covered and unveiled liaisons long before the 
world had even suspected them. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


103 


When she thought of all this, of the tender 
folly into which we may be thrown by the 
neighboring existence of another being ; by 
the sight, the voice, the thought, the I know 
not what of the beloved person for whom 
our heart has become distractedly troubled, 
she could not believe herself capable of such 
a thing. Yet how often, when weary of 
everything, and dreaming of inexpressible 
desires, tormented by that harassing yearn- 
ing for change, and for the unknown which 
was perhaps but the obscure agitation of an 
indefinite search for affection, she had wished, 
with a secret shame, born of her pride, to 
meet a man, who for a time, for a few months, 
might draw her into that ever-encircling for- 
getfulness of all thought, and with all her 
soul ; for life in these cases of emotion must 
assume a strange attraction of ecstasy and 
intoxication. 

She had not merely wished for this meet- 
ing, but had even searched a little, a very 
little for it, with that indolent activity that 
never stopped long at anything. 

In all these commencements of attraction 
toward qualified superior men which had da?- 


104 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


zled for a few weeks at a time, her short" 
effervescence of heart had always died out in 
irremediable deceptions. 

She exacted too much from their worth, 
from their nature, their character, their deli- 
cacy and their qualities. With each, she had 
always been reduced to admit that the faults 
of eminent men are often more salient than 
their merits ; that talent is a special gift, like 
good sight or a good stomach ; a gift of the 
work-shop, an isolated gift, without reference 
to the whole of those personal qualities that 
render friendly relations cordial or seductive. 

But since she had met Mariolle she had 
been attracted to him by something different. 
Did she love him, however ? Did she love 
him with passion? Without prestige, with- 
out notoriety, he had conquered her by his 
affection, by his tenderness, by his intelli- 
gence, by all the simple and veritable attrac- 
tions of his person. He had conquered her, 
for she thought of him incessantly, she con- 
tinually desired his presence ; no other being 
in the world was more agreeable, more sym- 
pathetic and more indispensable to her. Was 
this love ? 



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NOTKE CCEUk. 


105 


She did not feel that fire in her heart of 
which she had heard, but she felt, for the first 
time, a sincere desire to be something- more 
than a charming friend to this man. Did she 
love him ? To love, must the object appear 
endowed with exceptional attractions, differ- 
ent, and, above all things, in that aureole the 
heart creates around it§ favored one ? or does 
it suffice that he should please you, please 
you to that point that you cannot live with- 
out him ? 

In that case she loved him, or, at least, she 
almost loved him ; and, after long and deep 
reflection, she at last answered her own 
thoughts: “Yes, I love him; but I lack 
enthusiasm: my nature is to blame.” 

And yet, it was enthusiasm she had felt a 
few hours ago, when she saw him coming 
toward her on that terrace in the public gar- 
den. ■ For the first time she had felt that 
inexpressible something that carries, pushes, 
throws us toward some one. She had 
experienced a deep pleasure in walking 
beside him, in having him near, burning with 
love far her; when they had watched the 
setting sun behind the shadow of Mont- 


I06 NOTRE CCEUR. 

Saint-Michel, it was like a vision in a leg-end. 
Was not love itself a sort of legend of the 
soul, in which some instinctively believe, 
while others, by dint of thinking of it, end by 
believing sometimes also? Would she also 
become a believer? She had felt an odd 
desire to lean her head on his shoulder, to 
be nearer to him ; to s'earch for that “ near- 
ness” which we never find, to give him that 
which we offer in vain, and which we always 
keep — the secret intimacy of self. 

Yes, she had felt some rapture toward him, 
and she still felt it at this moment at the bot- 
tom of her heart. Perhaps it would suffice 
to abandon herself to this rapture to have it 
become love. She resisted and reasoned too 
much; she struggled too much against the 
charms of others. Would it not be delicious, 
on such a night, to walk at his side under the 
willows along the river, and to repay his love 
by offering him her lips from time to time? 

The noise of an opening window attracted 
her attention at this point, and, looking up, 
she saw that her father was searching for her. 

“Have you not gone to bed yet?” she 
cried out to him. 


NOTRE CCEUR. IO7 

“No; I was uneasy. If you do not come 
in you will take cold,” he replied. 

She arose, and entered the house. When 
she reached her room, she raised the curtain 
to look at the vapors on the bay, which ap- 
peared even whiter in the bright moonlight, 
and it seemed to her that the vapors of her 
heart were becoming more transparent under 
this rise of tenderness. 

She slept soundly, nevertheless, and did 
not open her eyes until her maid knocked at 
her door to awaken her; for they were to 
breakfast at the Mont. 

When she heard the noise of the carriage 
which came’ for them, she leaned from the 
window, and her eyes suddenly met those of 
Andre Mariolle, who was looking for her. 
Her heart began to beat a little. She felt, 
with surprise and emotion, the strange and 
new impression of that muscle which palpi- 
tates and sends forth a rush of blood to the 
temples at the sight of a certain being. She 
repeated to herself what she had said the 
previous night: “ I shall love him ! ” 

And when they met, knowing him to be 
tormented, sick with love, she almost wanted 


io8 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


to open her arms and offer him her lips, but 
she merely exchanged a glance with him, that 
made him pale with happiness. 

It was a clear summer morning, filled with 
the songs of birds and expanded life. They 
descended the hill, crossed the river and 
passed through the village by a road so rocky 
that the party was severely jolted in the car- 
riage. After a long silence Mme. de Burne 
began to chaff her uncle about the state of 
the road ; this sufficed to break the ice, and 
the gayety that floated in the air soon pene- 
trated their spirits. 

Suddenly at a turn of the road the bay re- 
appeared, not yellow, as it had appeared on 
the previous evening, but sparkling with clear 
water that covered everything, the sands, the 
salt marshes, and even the road itself a little 
further on. 

For an hour they went on very slowly, 
waiting for the tide to recede that they might 
proceed. 

The belt of elms and oaks encircling the 
farms which they were passing, permitted only 
occasional glimpses of the immense profile of 
the abbey on its rocky base, now in mid- 


NOTRE CCEVR. 


109 


ocean. Then, suddenly, it showed itself 
nearer and nearer, more and more surprising, 
the sun lighting up with its reddish tints 
that immense granite church on its rocky 
foundation. 

Michele de Burne and Andre Mariolle con- 
templated it, and, when their eyes met, there 
was mingled with their sharp and rising 
trouble, the poetry of this apparition on this 
rosy July morning. 

They all conversed freely together ; Mme. 
Valsaci told tragic stories of disasters, of 
nocturnal dramas, in which the moving 
sands half swallowed the travelers. M. 
Valsaci defended the dike, which had been 
attacked by artists ; •pointing out the advan- 
tages obtained from an uninterrupted com- 
munication with the Mont ; he also spoke of 
the immense downs recovered from the sea, 
used now for pasture, but which, in tirne, 
would be fit for cultivation. 

The carriage was suddenly brought to a 
standstill as the sea still inundated the road. 
It was but a light sheet of water, merely 
enough to hide the road ; but they feared to 


ITO 


NOTRE CCEUR 


sink in the quagmire, and were forced to 
wait. 

“ Oh ! the tide goes down very fast,” said 
M. Valsaci, pointing to the road where 
the thin layer of water was rapidly disap- 
pearing, apparently absorbed by the earth or 
attracted from afar by a mysterious and pow- 
erful force. 

They alighted, that they might watch more 
closely this strange departure of the sea; so 
rapid and silent in its flight. Green patches 
of submerged verdure already appeared here 
and there, and these grew in dimension, be- 
coming islands. These islands in turn soon 
assumed the appearance of continents, sepa- 
rated by miniature oceans, and at last the en- 
tire surface of the gulf became a retreating 
ground for the ocean, returning to the dis- 
tance. 

It might be called a long silver veil, an im- 
mense veil, torn and filled with holes in many 
places, and leaving behind it naked prairies of 
long grass without showing the sands that 
followed them. 

They had again entered the carriage, and 
were standing to obtain a better view of what 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


Ill 


was going on around them. Although the 
road was drying fast, the horses went on but 
slowly. Notwithstanding this precaution the 
roughness of the road often caused them to 
lose their equilibrium, and suddenly Andre 
Mariolle felt Mme. de Burne’s shoulder 
brushing against his own. At first he sup- 
posed that a sudden jolt had caused this con- 
tact, but she did not attempt to change her 
position, and each movement of the wheels 
caused her to lean more and more heavily 
against him. His trepidation and infatuation 
made him tremble; he dared not look at the 
young woman, the happiness of this unhoped- 
for familiarity paralyzing him, and he was 
thinking, in a disorder of ideas like that of in- 
toxication, Is it possible? ” “ Can it be pos- 

sible ? Are we both losing our senses ? ” 

The speed of the vehicle was now increased, 
so they seated themselves once more. Sud- 
denly Mariolle experienced the imperious and 
mysterious desire of making himself agree- 
able to M. de Pradon, and he showered flat- 
tering attentions upon him. The old man 
was as susceptible to flattery and compliments 


II2 


N-OTRE C(EUR. 


as his daughter, so he soon forgot his ill- 
humor, and smiled pleasantly. 

They now reached the dike, and went 
straight on in the direction of the Mont, 
which stood erect amid the sands at the end 
of this road. At the left, the slope was 
bathed by the river Pontorson; to the right, 
the pasture lands, covered with grass, had 
given place to the still, dank downs, impreg- 
nated by the sea. 

The high monument appeared to grow 
larger against the blue sky, as it now stood 
clearly outlined in all its details, its bell- 
shaped and turreted head covered by grin- 
ning gargoyles, and heads of monsters, with 
which the terrified faith of our fathers sur- 
mounted their Gothic sanctuaries. 

It was nearly one o’clock when they reached 
the hotel, where the breakfast had* been 
ordered; but the inn-keeper, from motives of 
prudence, was not quite ready. They were, 
consequently, very hungry and tired when at 
last they seated themselves at the table; but 
the champagne soon enlivened them, and two 
hearts, at least, believed themselves very 
near happiness. By the time the dessert was 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


113 

brought on, the wine had developed in the 
hearts of all that agreeable sensation of com- 
fort which disposes us to approve and accept 
everything that may be proposed. Mariolle 
took advantage of this good humor by pro- 
posing that they should all remain there until 
the next day, adding: 

“ It will be so beautiful to see all this in the 
qioonlight; and, besides, we will have the pleas- 
ure of dining together again this evening.” 

Mme. de Burne and the two gentlemen ac- 
cepted the invitation at once; Mme. Valsaci 
alone hesitated, on account of her boy, whom 
she had left at home; but her husband reas- 
sured her, reminding her that she had often 
absented herself from home, and, besides, he 
immediately sent a dispatch to the govern- 
ess, notifying her of their intention. He was 
charmed with Mariolle, who had flattered him 
by approving the dike, saying it really did 
not spoil the view of the Mont, as had often 
been said. 

Soon after breakfast they started to visit 
the Mont, taking the road by the ramparts. 
The houses skirting the road were built in 
the style of the middle ages, and grouped 

Notre Coeur 8 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


114 

one over the other on this immense block of 
granite, with the abbey on its summit. The 
town is divided from the sea by a high, em- 
battled wall encircling the town, full of nooks, 
angles, platforms, and loopholes, as astonish- 
ing to the eye as the discovery at every open 
space of a new expanse of immense horizon. 
They proceeded in silence for a while, awed 
by the grandeur of their surroundings. At 
each turn of the road they obtained a new 
view of the immense edifice; and above them, 
against the sky, there appeared a prodigious 
mixture of arrows, granite flowers, and arches, 
thrown from one tower to another; an intri- 
cate, enormous, and delicate interlacing of 
architecture against the azure of the sky, from 
which it extended, and seemed to swallow up 
the fantastic gargoyles with their heads of 
monsters. Between the sea and the abbey, 
on the north flank of the Mont, was a steep 
declivity, called the forest, because it was 
covered with old trees. It extended from 
the last of the houses, making a somber green 
patch on the yellow sands. 

Mme. de Burne and Andre Mariolle, who 
were some distance ahead of the others. 


NOTRE CGEUR. 


II5 

Stopped to admire the vivid colorings. She 
was leaning on his arm, benumbed by a rapt- 
ure she had never before experienced. She 
could have wished this rough road to be end- 
less, for she felt herself almost fully satisfied 
for the first time in her life. 

“ Oh ! how beautiful it is,” she murmured. 

“ I can think of nothing but you,” he replied, 
looking at her. 

She smiled, and continued: 

“ I am not very poetic, but nevertheless I 
find this so beautiful that I feel truly moved.” 

They had now arrived at the gate of the 
abbey, and they entered by that superb stair- 
way, between two enormous towers, which 
lead to the guards’ quarters. They then went 
from room to room, from court to court, from 
dungeon to dungeon, listening to the guide’s 
descriptions, and astonished and enchanted 
with everything. A crypt of massive pillars 
supported the grand edifice. This marvel 
was a three-storied Gothic monument, and 
the most extraordinary masterpiece of monas- 
tic and military architecture of the middle 
ages. 

When they reached the cloister, they were 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


1 16 

astonished by the sight of the large square 
space inclosed within the most superb and 
most graceful colonnades of all the cloisters in 
the world. Along the four galleries was an 
uninterrupted wreath of ornaments and an in- 
finite variety of Gothic flowers, of that ele- 
gant and simple design of the old masters, 
whose dreams and thoughts assisted their 
chisels in carving the stones. 

Michele de Burne and Andre Mariolle wan- 
dered arm in arm through these galleries, 
while the rest of the party, who were some- 
what fatigued, admired them from a distance. 

“How beautiful it all is,” she murmured 
again. 

“I know not where I am, nor what I see,” 
he replied. “ I only feel that you are near 
me.’ 

She smiled, looking up into his face, and 
repeated the single word : 

“Andre.” 

He understood that she had at last surren- 
dered ; and they resumed their walk in 
silence, being too much overpowered by emo- 
tion for words. 

They still continued their inspection of the 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


iiy 

monument, but scarcely seeing anything 
until they reached the beautifully carved stair- 
case which led to an arch thrown between 
two towers, seeming to scale the heavens. A 
dizzy granite path encircled the last tower ; it 
was called the Fool’s walk, and was without 
a parapet. 

“ Can we go up ? ” she asked. 

The guide replied that it was forbidden, 
but at the sight of a twenty-franc piece he 
hesitated. 

The whole family, who had now rejoined 
them, opposed the project ; but, turning to 
Mariolle, Mme. de Burne asked him if he 
were also afraid to undertake its passage. 

“I have passed more dangerous places,” 
he answered, laughing, and, without another 
word to the others, they passed on. 

He went first along the narrow cornice at 
the edge of the precipice, and she followed 
closely, gliding along the wall, with her eyes 
half closed, fearing to look at the yawning 
gulf below. She was almost fainting from 
fright, and clung tightly to the hand he ex- 
tended to her, but, feeling him so strong, with- 
out fear, and his step so firm and fearless, 


Il8 NOTRE C (EUR. 

she thought to herself, enraptured notwith- 
standing her fright: "Truly he is a man.” 
They were alone in space, as high as the 
birds of the sea ever soared, dominating the 
same horizon that these white winged crea- 
tures wander over incessantly in their flight, 
and explore with their small yellow eyes. 

Feeling her trembling, Mariolle asked, 
softly : “ Are you dizzy ? ” 

"A little," she replied, in a low voice ; " but 
with you I fear nothing.” 

Coming nearer, he threw an arm around 
her, and, feeling reassured by this support, 
she ventured to raise her head and look 
around her. 

He was almost carrying her, and she 
abandoned herself to his care, enjoying the 
robust protection which seemed to carry 
her through the air. Yet she felt thankful, 
with the thankfulness of the romantic woman, 
that he did not spoil this sublime moment 
with kisses. 

When they rejoined the party, M. de 
Pradon, who had been wild with anxiety, 
exclaimed, angrily : 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


II9 

“ Heavens ! what a stupid thing- you have 
done ! ” 

“ No,” she replied, with conviction ; “ it was 
not stupid, since we have succeeded. Noth- 
ing is stupid when it is successful.” 

He shrugged his shoulders, and they went 
down again, stopping only a few moments 
to buy some views of the place, from the 
gate-keeper ; so, when they reached the hotel, 
it was almost dinner time. The landlady 
advised them to take a walk on the sands 
near the shore, and view the Mont from the 
sea, where, she said, it presented its most 
magnificent aspect. 

Although much fatigued, they set off at 
once, making the circuit of the ramparts by 
going a little distance into the dangerous 
downs ; so treacherous with its appearance of 
solidity, and where the foot sunk suddenly to 
the ankle into the beautiful yellow carpet of 
deceiving golden sands. 

From that side, the abbey, losing its aspect 
of a marine cathedral, which it possessed 
when seen from the terrace, suddenly as- 
sumed the warlike air of a feudal manor, 
menacing the ocean with its tall, indented 


120 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


walls, pierced with loop-holes, and supported 
by its gigantic buttresses imbedded in the 
foot of the mountain. But Mme. de Burne 
and Andre Mariolle paid little attention to all 
this. Their thoughts were entirely of them- 
selves; entwined in that net which they had 
spread for each other, and inclosed in that 
prison in which we know nothing more of the 
outside world and see but one being. 

When they were again seated at the table 
under the gay lights of the lamps, they awak- 
ened from their dream, and perceived that 
they were, nevertheless, very hungry; and, 
when dinner was at last over, they forgot the 
moonlight in the pleasures of conversation. 
Besides, they felt no inclination to go out, and 
no one spoke of it. 

The full moon might light up with poetic 
brightness the thin flow ofthe ascending tide, 
already gliding over the sands with its almost 
imperceptible and terrifying noise. It might 
light up the ramparts encircling the Mont, 
and illuminate the downs, the bay, and the 
romantic shadows of all the towers of the 
abbey — they had no desire to see anymore. 

It was hardly ten o’clock when Mme. Val- 


NOTRE CCEVR. 


I2I 


saci, who was almost overcome by sleep, 
spoke of retiring. The proposition was 
gladly accepted by all, and, having bidden 
each other a cordial good-night, they retired. 

Andre Mariolle, knowing that he could not 
sleep, lighted the two candles on the chim- 
ney-piece, opened the window, and looked 
out into the night. 

His heart faltered under the torture of 
- futile hope. He knew her to be there, so 
near, separated from him by two doors only, 
and it was almost as impossible to reach her 
as it was to stop the flow of the tide then 
inundating the downs. He felt an inclination 
to cry out in this torture of unappeasable and 
vain waiting ; and he asked himself what he 
should do, as he could no longer endure the 
solitude of this night of sterile happiness. 

Quiet now reigned in the hotel and in the 
only street of the town. Mariolle still re- 
mained leaning on the window, looking at 
the silvery sheet of the ascending tide, and 
putting off incessantly the hour of going to 
bed, as if he had a presentiment of he knew 
not what providential fortune. 

He was suddenly awakened from his reverie 


122 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


by th« thought that a hand had touched his 
door-knob. He turned his head quickly, and 
saw that the door was slowly opening. A 
woman entered, her head concealed under a 
white lace veil, and her whole form enveloped 
in a large cloak, which seemed made of silk, 
of cashmere and of snow. She closed the 
door noiselessly behind her ; then, as if she 
had not seen him standing and overwhelmed 
with joy near the window, she walked straight 
to the chimney-piece and extinguished the two 
candles. 



CHAPTER II. 


Next morning Andre Mariolle was the first 
to come down, and awaited the others to bid 
them good-bye. He awaited her appearance 
with a poignant sentiment of disquietude and 
happiness. What would she do ? What 
would she be ? What would come to both ? 
On what happy or terrible adventure had they 
entered ? She could make of him whatever 
she wished: the happiest of mortals or a 
martyr to unsatisfied desires. 

When would they meet again ? Would she 
abridge or lengthen her visit, thus postpon- 
ing her return ? He had a morbid fear of her 
first glance and her first words, for he had 
not seen her face, and but little had been said 
during their meeting of the night before. 

There remained to Andre Mariolle, of this 
rapid and odd interview, the imperceptible 
deception of a man who has not gathered in 


124 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


all the crop of the love he had thought ripe, 
and the intoxication of triumph at the same 
time. 

He now heard her voice, and it made him 
tremble. She was talking loud, irritated by 
some altercation with her father, and, when 
he saw her on the lower steps of the stairway, 
her face betrayed her impatience. 

Mariolle came toward her; she saw him and 
smiled. In her suddenly calmed eyes there 
came a look of happiness that brightened up 
her whole face, and in the quick extending 
of her hand he had the confirmation of the 
gift she had made of herself to him, without 
restraint and without repentance. 

“Then, we are about to part,” said she. 

“Alas! yes, madame,” said he; “and it 
pains me more than I can say.” 

“It will not be for long,” she murmured, 
and, as M. de Pradon joined them at this 
moment, she whispered ; 

“ Tell them that you are going to Brittany 
for ten days, but do not go.” 

“Your father tells me that you leave us 
day after to-morrow !” exclaimed her aunt, 
who now made her appearance. “ It surely 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


125 

cannot be true, for you had promised to re- 
main until Monday.” 

“ Yes; I must go,” replied Mme. de Burne; 
“ the sea air has, as usual, caused return of 
my neuralgia, and, in fact, I have made up my 
mind to return, that I may not be ill the rest 
of the summer. But this is hardly the time 
to speak of that.” 

At this moment Mariolle’s coachman 
warned him that it was time to go if he 
wished to catch the train at Pontorson. 

“And when do you return to Paris?” asked 
Mme. de Burne. 

“I cannot say with certainty,” he replied; 
“ I am going to Saint Malo, Brest, Donar- 
nenez; in fact, I shall visit all the celebrated 
points of Brittany. It will certainly take me 

from fifteen to twenty days,” he added, 

hesitatingly. 

“That is quite a long time,” she laughed; 
“as for me, if I suffer again as I did last 
night, I shall return within two days.” 

Overcome by emotion, he wanted to cry 
out his thanks ; he, however, contented him- 
self by imprinting a lover’s kiss on her ex- 
tended hand. 


126 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


And after exchanging a thousand compli- 
ments, thanks and affirmations of sympathy 
with the Valsacis and M. de Pradon, who was 
somewhat reassured by the announcement of 
that journey, he hurried away, looking back 
at her as long as he could see. 

He returned to Paris without stopping or 
seeing anything on the way. During the 
night, reclining in the corner of his compart- 
ment, his eyes half closed, his arms crossed, 
he gave himself up to the one recollection, 
the one thought of his dream realized. As 
soon as he reached home, he went at once 
into his library, where he was used to write 
and practice, and where he always found a 
calming influence from the near neighbor- 
hood of books, his piano, and his violin. But 
he had no sooner seated himself than the 
feverish impatience of his insatiable heart 
returned , to torture and agitate him. Sur- 
prised to find that none of his usual pastimes 
had any interest for him, he asked himself 
what he should do to appease this new 
uneasiness. A desire to go out, to walk, to 
move about, seemed to take possession of 
him. He was unable to analyze this crisis of 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


127 


agitation, imparted by the mind to the body, 
and which is simply the unappeasable desire 
of searching for or finding some one. 

He hastily put on his overcoat, took his 
hat, and opened the door. As he was 
descending the stairs, he asked himself: 
"Where am I going?” Then, suddenly, an 
idea he had not thought of before came to 
him — for the secrecy of their meetings he 
required a house, at once pretty and retired. 

He searched, he walked through avenues, 
boulevards, streets, examined suspiciously 
the smiling janitors, who lauded their apart- 
ments effusively, and returned at night utterly 
discouraged. The next morning at nine 
o’clock he resumed his search, and, finally, 
just at nightfall, he discovered, in a small 
street at Auteuil, a solitary villa, situated at 
the extremity of a garden having three exits. 
This the house-furnisher in the neighborhood 
promised to fit up in two days. Mariolle 
chose the materials, desiring only simple fur- 
niture of varnished wood, and thick carpets. 
The caretaker of the garden was a baker, who 
lived near one of the gates. He made arrange- 
ments with this man and wife to keep the 


128 NOTRE CCEUR. 

cottage in order, and a neighboring florist 
undertook to keep the vases filled with 
flowers. 

All these arrangements had kept him until 
nine o’clock, and, when he reached home, 
almost worn out, he found a dispatch on his 
writing-desk awaiting him. He eagerly 
opened it, and read as follows: 

“ I will be at home to-morrow night. Will send instructions. 

“ Miche.” 

He had not written to her, fearing the let- 
ter might miscarry, as she was to leave 
Avranches. As soon as he had dined, he 
seated himself at his desk and began to write, 
trying to express to her all that filled his soul. 
It was a long and difficult task, for all expres- 
sions, phrases and ideas seemed feeble, med- 
iocre and ridiculous, to express so delicate 
and passionate an appeal. 

The letter he received next morning con- 
firmed the intelligence of her return the same 
evening, and begged him to remain quiet for 
a few days, that his friends might believe he 
was still out of the city. And she requested 
him to meet her on the terrace of the Tuileries 
overlooking the Seine, at ten o’clock the next 
morning. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


129 


He was there an hour too soon, and wan- 
dered through the large garden just now de- 
serted except for a few passers-by, clerks in 
public offices hurrying to their occupation, 
jostling along with laborers of all races and 
colors. He felt a rare pleasure in looking at 
these people, whom the necessity of earning 
their daily bread forced to work at hateful 
occupations, and who were now hurrying past 
him. Comparing them to himself in this hour, 
when he awaited his mistress, a queen of the 
world, he felt himself a being so fortunate, so 
privileged, that he was inclined to thank the 
blue heavens ; for Providence was to him 
but so many alternations of azure and rain, 
due to Hazard, who was the sullen master of 
man and of day. 

A few minutes before ten he returned to the 
terrace and awaited her arrival. 

“She will be late, no doubt,” he said to 
himself. But the sound of the last stroke of 
the hour, struck by the clock in the neighbor- 
ing monument, had scarcely died away, when 
he imagined he saw her in the distance cross- 
ing the garden at a rapid rate, like a belated 
clerk hurrying to his work. He hesitated ; 

Notre Coeur 9 


130 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


“was it really she?” he recognized her gait, 
but was astounded at her changed appearance, 
so modest, in her plain black dress. She 
came straight to the stairway of the terrace, 
as if accustomed to the place. 

“ She must like this vicinity, and no doubt 
frequently takes her walks in this direction,” 
he thought. He saw her raise her dress to 
ascend the first step, and he hurried to meet 
her. 

She smiled when she saM-^ him, but said, 
uneasily: “You are very imprudent. You 
should not show yourself so publicly. I saw 
you almost from the Rue de Rivoli. Come, 
let us seat ourselves on that bench over there; 
that is where you must await me the next 
time.” 

He could not help asking: “ Then, you 
come here often ? ” 

“Yes; I like this place very much, and, as I 
am an early riser, I come here for exercise, 
and to enjoy the view, which is so pretty from 
this point. And, besides, one never meets 
anybody here, while at the Bois it is always 
crowded. But you must keep this a secret.” 

“ I shall guard it sacredly,” he laughed. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


I3I 

Then discreetly taking one of the little 
hands, hidden in the folds of her dress, he 
murmured 

How much I love you My heart is 
sick with waiting. Did you receive my 
letter ? ” 

“Yes, and it moved me very much,” re- 
plied she. 

“ Then, you are not angry with me ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Why, no. Why should I be, you are so 
kind ? ” answered she. 

He was searching for ardent words ; words 
vibrating with love and emotion. Finding 
none, and too much affected for other 
thoughts, he could only repeat : 

“How much I love you ! ” 

“ I met you here, because the place reminds 
me of over there, somewhat, on account of the 
water,” said she. 

They were seated near the stone balustrade, 
on the edge of the river, almost alone, and 
hidden from all curious eyes. Two garden- 
ers and a few children, accompanied by their 
nurse, were the only living beings on the 
long terrace at this hour. 


132 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


Time passed on, the carriages rolled by on 
the quay at their feet, footsteps hurried by 
on the promenade near the wall, and still they 
remained silent, looking at this beautiful 
Parisian landscape extending from He St. 
Louis, and the tower of Notre Dame to the 
Coteaux de Meudon. 

Mme. de Burne was the first to break the 
silence, with a commonplace remark : 

“ How very pretty it is here,” said she. 

But suddenly seized with the thrilling 
remembrance of their walk in mid-air, on the 
summit of the tower of the abbey, and devoured 
by the regret of by-gone emotions, he re- 
plied: 

“ Do you remember our flight in the Fool’s 
walk ? ” 

“Yes, and it frightens me now that I think 
of it. Heavens ! how dizzy it would make 
me were I to try it again ; but just then I 
was quite intoxicated by the bracing air, the 
sun and the sea. But the scenery now before 
us is quite as beautiful. I love Paris above 
all.” 

He was surprised and shocked, having a 
confused presentiment that something which 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


133 


had appeared in her over there, existed no 
longer. 

“Never mind the view, as long as we are 
together,” he murmured. 

She pressed his hand without replying. 
Then, more penetrated with happiness by this 
light pressure, than he could have been by 
affectionate words, he felt the gloom that 
had oppressed his heart suddenly lifted, and 
he could now give vent to his pent-up emo- 
tion. He told her, in almost solemn words, 
that he had given her his whole heart and 
soul ; and that she could do as she pleased 
with him. 

She was grateful, but a victim ot modern 
suspicions and cutting ironies, she smiled as 
she replied : 

“Do not promise too much.” 

He turned his eyes on hers, looking at her 
with that penetrating look of love and emo- 
tion, and repeated to her, more ardently and 
more poetically, all he had said. 

All he had written in that avalanche of 
burning letters, he now expressed in words 
with so much fervor and conviction that she 
listened as if in a cloud of incense. She felt 


134 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


more caressed by those adoring lips, tnan 
she had been by any previous appeal. 

When he had ended, she said, simply: “I 
love you very much, also.” 

They remained, hand-in-hand, like peasants 
on the country road-side, looking vaguely at 
the gliding boats on the river. They were 
alone in Paris, in this immense confusion 
floating around them in that city full of life, 
more than they had been at the summit of 
that aerial tower. And for a few seconds they 
forgot that any one else existed on the face 
of the earth. 

She was the first to return to a sentiment 
of reality. “Shall we meet here again to- 
morrow ? ” said she. 

He reflected a few seconds, evidently em- 
barrassed by what he was about to ask, then 
said : 

“Yes — yes — certainly — but — shall we 
not meet somewhere else ? This place — is 
solitary — nevertheless — everybody can come 
here.” 

She hesitated, then said : 

“That is true and, besides, you must 

keep in hiding for fifteen days at least, that 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


135 


your friends may believe in your journey. 
It would certainly be nice and very myste- 
rious to meet without the knowledge of any 
one in Paris. But I cannot receive you in 

my own house at present. Therefore I 

do not see .” 

“ Neither can I invite you to my apart- 
ments, but is there not another way, some 
other place ? ” he said, blushing. 

She showed neither surprise nor anger, 
being a woman of practical sense, of modern 
ideas, and without false modesty. 

'‘Why, yes,” she said: “only it would 
require time to think of it.” 

“ But I have thought of it,” added he. 

“Already?” she asked. 

“Yes, madame.” 

“ Well, what is it?” 

“ Do you know the Rue des Vieux-Champs, 
at Auteuil ? ” he asked. 

“ No, I do not,” replied she. 

“ It extends from the Rue Tournemine to 
the Rue Jean-de-Saulye.” Well, in that 
street is a cottage in the center of a pretty 
garden, having three exits on the streets I 
have named. 


136 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


“And ? ” she interjected. 

“ That cottage is at your disposal,” replied 
he. 

She reflected a moment; then, without any 
embarrassment, asked a few questions of fem- 
inine prudence. 

His explanation was evidently satisfactory, 
for she murmured, as she arose to go : 

“ I will be there to-morrow at three o’clock.” 

“ I shall await you near the gate. Do not 
forget it is number seven,” he said. 

“Very well. Adieu until to-morrow,” .she 
replied. 

“A thousand thanks, my adored one. 
Adieu.” 

“Do not accompany me, ” said she, “but 
remain here ten minutes at least, and then re- 
turn by another way.” 

She went off, walking so rapidly, with an 
air so discreet, so modest, so hurried, that she 
really resembled one of those sly and indus- 
trious daughters of Paris who parade the 
streets in the morning on their way to their 
honest occupations. 

He hurried off to Auteuil, tormented by 
the fear that the cottage would not be in 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


137 


readiness on the morrow. But he found it 
full of workmen ; the hangings already on the 
walls, the carpets on the floors; all was noise 
and bustle in the hurry of preparations. In 
the spacious garden, the remains of an 
ancient park, were a number of fine old trees, 
and several groves of smaller ones simulating 
a forest. Among these trees were several 
winding paths, and the gardener had already 
planted rosebushes, pinks, geraniums, and a 
score of other species of those plants which, 
with attentive care, are so quick in expanding 
that in almost a single day they transform a 
disordered field into a flower garden. 

Mariolle was as joyous as if he had gained 
a victory over her, and, having obtained the 
promise of the purveyor that all would be in 
readiness at noon the next day, he went out 
to purchase all sorts of knickknacks to adorn 
the interior of this dwelling. For the walls, 
he chose some admirable engravings; repro- 
ductions of celebrated paintings; porcelain by 
Deck for the chimney-piece and tables, and a 
few of those familiar objects which women 
love to have about them. 

He spent three months of his income in that 


1^8 NOTRE CCEUR. 

one day, and he spent with pleasure. He 
had economized incessantly for the last ten 
years, not from motives of economy, but 
simply because he had never needed large 
sums of money, and his accumulated income 
now permitted him to spend lavishly. 

Early next morning he returned to the 
cottage to superintend the last arrangements. 
He hung the pictures himself, climbed up lad- 
ders, burned delicate perfumes in the rooms, 
and sprinkled large quantities of it on the 
hangings and even on the carpets. In his 
feverish excitement and rapture of his whole 
being, he had the impression that he was 
doing the most interesting and most delicious 
work he had ever done. He consulted the 
clock every instant, calculating the hours that 
must yet elapse before her coming, then he 
would urge his assistants to renewed efforts, 
and did all he could himself to arrange and 
dispose everything to the best advantage. 

Through motives of prudence he dismissed 
everybody before two o’clock, and then in this 
last hour of waiting in this house of silence, 
he awaited the greatest happiness he had ever 
hoped for. He wandered from one room to 


NOTRE CCEC/R. 


139 


the other, talking aloud, and dreaming of 
the deep joys of love he was about to taste. 

He then went into the garden. The rays 
of the sun, gliding through the thick foliage, 
shone brightly on a lovely basket of roses ; 
he stopped to admire them for a; few 
moments, then passed on and placed himself 
behind the gate, opening it now and then 
through fear that she might make a mistake. 

Three o’clock came at last, and the strokes 
were repeated by all the convents and work- 
shops in the vicinity. He was now standing 
with his watch in his hand, and suddenly two 
light raps on the gate made him tremble with 
astonishment, for he had heard no footsteps 
on the walk. 

He opened the gate. It was indeed she. 
She looked around in surprise, first inspect- 
ing, with an uneasy glance, the nearest dwell- 
ings. She was soon reassured, for certainly 
no one who dwelt in these modest cottages 
could know her. She then resumed her in- 
spection of the garden, with a satisfied 
curiosity, and finally she placed the tips of 
her fingers on her lover’s lips, and took his 


140 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


arm. They walked on toward the cottage, 
and she exclaimed, at each step ; 

“ How beautiful ! How unexpected ! How 
charming ! ” 

At this moment she perceived the roses 
brightened by the sunlight, and she exclaimed, 
in delight: 

“ Why, it is fairy land, my dear friend ! ” 

She gathered one of the roses, kissed it, 
and placed it at her waist. They then en- 
tered the cottage, and she seemed so pleased 
and happy that he felt a desire to throw him- 
self on his knees before her; although in his 
heart he felt that she might perhaps have paid 
less attention to her surroundings and a little 
more to himself. She looked around her, 
seemingly as pleased as a child who finds a 
new plaything; and she appreciated all this 
elegance with the satisfaction of a connoisseur 
whose taste has been flattered. She had 
feared to find a commonplace dwelling, with 
hangings faded and soiled by other rendez- 
vous. On the contrary, this pretty tomb of 
her feminine virtue was new, coquettish, cre- 
ated for herself, and must have cost a great 
deal. Indeed, this man was perfect. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


I4I 

She turned and raised her two arms to him 
with a ravishing gesture of appeal, and they 
met in one of those embraces which loving 
hearts only can appreciate. 

Before separating they went around the 
garden once more, and seated themselves in 
one of those retreats of verdure, hidden from 
the outside world. Andre was exuberant, 
speaking to her as if she were a goddess who 
had come down from her sacred pedestal for 
him, and she listened with that languid look 
in her eyes he had often seen when wearied 
by the prolonged visit of tiresome people. 
She remained still affectionate, however, her 
face lighted up by a tender though somewhat 
constrained smile, and still holding his hand, 
which she clasped, perhaps more through 
absent-mindedness than from affection. 

Her thoughts must have been elsewhere, 
for she interrupted him in the middle of a 
phrase, saying ; 

“ I must go at once, as I am to be at the 
Marquise de Bratiane’s at six o’clock, and I 
am already late.” 

He conducted her to the gate through 
which he had admitted her. They kissed 


142 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


affectionately, and, after casting a furtive 
glance into the street, she departed, gliding 
along the wall. 

As soon as he was again alone he felt that 
void we experience after the departure of a 
beloved woman, and that strange tightening 
of the heart caused by the flight of departing 
footsteps. He felt abandoned and solitary, 
and began to walk rapidly on the graveled 
paths, thinking of the eternal contradiction 
of hope and reality. 

He remained there until nightfall, trying to 
restore his serenity, and he gave himself to 
her from afar more assuredly than she had 
ever surrendered herself to him ; he then 
returned to his apartments, dined without 
remarking what he ate, and wrote her a long 
letter before retiring. 

The next day seemed terribly long, and 
the evening interminable; so he wrote again. 
But no answer came until the second day, 
when he received a telegram appointing the 
next day for a new rendezvous, at the same 
hour. This little message delivered him from 
the fever of waiting he was suffering. 

She came as she had the first time, punctual. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


143 

affectionate, and smiling, and their second 
meeting at the little cottage at Auteuil was 
as delicious as their first. Andre Mariolle 
was at first surprised, then vaguely disap- 
pointed, to see that their love did not ripen 
into that ecstatic passion that he had hoped 
for; but he soon forgot this unrealized dream 
in the somewhat different happiness he had 
obtained. He became attached to her by her 
caresses, which is the strongest link, the only 
link we can never break when it has once en- 
twined us. 

Twenty days passed on, so full of sweetness 
and happiness that it seemed to him they 
would never end, that he would always re- 
main there, living for her only, and, in his 
thoughts, always devoured by expectations, 
had been born an impossible hope of a dis- 
creet life, both happy and hidden. 

She came every three days, without resist- 
ance, attracted as much by the charm of the 
little cottage, now become a conservatory of 
rare flowers, and by the novelty of this life of 
love and mystery, which was scarcely dan- 
gerous, since no one had the right to follow her, 
as by the increasing tenderness of her lover. 


144 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


“ You must reappear in the world now, my 
dear friend,” she said to him one day. “ You 
must come and spend the afternoon with me 
to-morrow; I have announced that you had 
returned.” 

“ Oh ! why so soon ? ” he said, overcome 
with sorrow. 

“ Because, if it became accidentally known 
that you were in Paris, your presence here 
would be inexplicable enough to give birth to 
suppositions. ” 

He admitted that she was right, and prom- 
ised to be at her house next day. 

“ Then, you receive to-morrow ? ” he asked. 

“Yes,” she answered; “in fact, I am to 
have a little entertainment to-morrow.” 

“ What kind of an entertainment ? ” he 
asked, displeased. 

After a great deal of coaxing, she said, 
laughing: 

“ I have persuaded Massival to produce his 
Didon, which no one has ever heard, at my 
house. It is a poem of ancient love; and 
Mme. de Bratiane, who considers herself the 
sole proprietress of Massival, is exasperated. 


mTHE CCEUR. 


H5 


She will be present, as she is one of the sing- 
ers. Am I not powerful ? ” 

“ Will you have many people ? ” he asked. 
“ Oh ! no; only a few intimate friends. 
You know them nearly all,” replied she. 

“ Can you not dispense with my presence ? 
I am so happy in my solitude,” he added. 

“ Oh ! no, my friend. Remember that I 
care more for you than all the others,” she 
said, tenderly. 

“Thank you; I shall be there,” replied he, 
his heart beating with joy. 



Notre Coeur lo 


CHAPTER III. 


“ Good day, my dear monsieur.” 

Mariolle remarked that it was no longer 
the dear friend of Auteuil, and she gave him 
but a hasty pressure of the hand, like a 
woman much occupied with social duties. 

He had entered the drawing-room as Mme. 
de Burne was welcoming Mme. Le Prieur, 
whose bold decolletage and pretensions to a 
sculptural form had obtained for her the 
ironical surname of the “Goddess.” She 
was the wife of a member of the institute. 

“ Ah ! Mariolle,” cried Lamarthe, “ where 
have you been all this time, my dear friend. 
We thought you were dead.” 

I have just returned from a trip to P'inis- 
tere, he answered, and proceeded to relate 
his impressions of that place, but the novelist 
soon interrupted him, asking if he knew the 
Baronne de Fremines. 

“No,” he answered; “that is, I know. her 
by sight only, but I have heard a great deal 

146 


NOTRE CCEUR. 1 47 

of her ; she is said to be a very curious 
woman.” 

“She is the archduchess of the frivolous 
ones, but of such tact ; in fact, an exquisite 
bouquet of modernity. Come, I will present 
you.” 

Taking his arm, he dragged him toward 
the young woman, who was always compared 
to a doll — a pale, ravishing little blonde doll, 
invented and created by the devil himself for 
the perdition of grown-up children with 
whiskers. Her eyes were long, narrow, and 
oblique, resembling those of the Chinese 
race. The light from the dark-blue pupils 
glided from half-open eyelids — they were 
slow eyelids, and rarely opened, made to veil 
the thoughts of this mysterious creature. 

Her hair was blonde, the mouth small and 
clearly cut, as if sketched by a miniaturist. 
The voice emitted from between her thin lips 
vibrated like crystal, and her words were 
always unexpected, cutting, wicked and amus- 
ing, and of that destructive charm of the 
soulless woman of the world. The tranquil 
complication of this accomplished coquette 
always filled her surroundings with violent 


148 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


agitations and passions. She was known 
through Paris as the most extravagant, and 
also the wittiest, of her set, but no one 
ever knew what she was, what she thought 
or what she did, and she dominated over men 
in general with an irresistible power. 

Her husband, equally, remained an enigma. 
In his affability and dignity he seemed to see 
nothing. Was he blind, indifferent, or com- 
placent? Perhaps there was really nothing 
to see but eccentricities, which, no doubt, he 
found very amusing. All sorts of opinions 
obtained currency concerning him. It was 
even hinted that he profited by the secret 
vices of his wife. 

Between Mme. de Burne and herself there 
existed powerful natural attractions and fe- 
rocious jealousies. Short periods of friend- 
ship were followed by fits of furious enmity. 
They pleased, feared, and sought each other, 
like two professional duelists who appreciate 
each other’s value, and wish to fight to the 
death. 

The Baronne de Fremines was just now 
triumphant. She had just obtained a great 
victory, having captured Lamarthe; she had 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


149 


detached him from Mme. de Burne, to ostensi- 
bly domesticate him among her own chosen 
followers. The novelist was infatuated, puz- 
zled, charmed and astonished with all he had 
discovered in this improbable creature, and 
he spoke of her incessantly. 

As he presented her to Mariolle, Mme. de 
Burne, who was occupied at the other end of 
the room, glanced uneasily in their direction. 

“ Look at the displeased look of our hos- 
tess,” said Lamarthe, smiling. 

Andre raised his eyes, but Mme. de Burne 
had already turned to Massival, who just now 
made his appearance between the portieres, 
followed closely by the Marquise de Bratiane. 

“There!” exclaimed Lamarthe; “we 
shall have but a second rendering of Didon, 
for the first must have taken place in the 
coupe of the marquise.” 

“Our friend, Mme. de Burne, is certainly 
losing the brightest jewels of her collection, ” 
added Mme. de Fremines, maliciously. 

A sort of hatred against this woman was 
suddenly awakened in the heart of Mariolle. 
He felt an irritation against everybody, 
against the habits of these peopje, their ideas, 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


150 

their tastes, their futile propensities and their 
clownish amusements. 

Then, as Lamarthe bent over to whisper a 
few words in her ear, he turned his back and 
walked away, stopping near the beautiful 
Mme. Le Prieur, who was standing alone at 
this moment. 

According to Lamarthe, Mme. Le Prieur 
represented ancient respectability in this ad- 
vance guard of modernism. She was young, 
tall and pretty, with regular features and red- 
dish brown hair. She captivated by her be- 
nevolent and tranquil charms, by a calm and 
perfect coquetry, and also by her great desire 
of pleasing, dissimulated under a sincere and 
simple affection. 

She had ardent partisans, whom she was 
careful not to expose to dangerous rivalries. 
Her house was said to be a narrow circle of 
intimates, and the frequenters were unani- 
mous in their praises of her husband’s merits. 

She and Mariolle were soon in the midst of 
a pleasant conversation. She appreciated 
this intelligent and reserved man, of whom 
she had heard but little, but who was, per- 
haps, worth more than all the others. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


I5I 

The last of the expected g'uests were arriv- 
ing : big Fresnol, puffing and mopping his 
perspiring and shining forehead with his hand- 
kerchief ; the worldly philosopher, George de 
Maltry ; then the Baron de Gravil and the 
Comte de Marantin, who came in together. 

M. de Pradon was assisting his daughter in 
doing the honors, and he was full of attentions 
toward Mariolle. But Mariolle watched her 
come and go among her guests, and it wrung 
his heart to see that she gave him no, more 
thought than to any one else. Twice, it is 
true, she had given him a rapid glance from 
afar, which seemed to say: “I am thinking 
of you,” but these had been so swift that he 
might have been mistaken in their meaning, 
and, besides, he could not help noticing that 
Lamarthe’s aggressive assiduity for Mme. de 
Fremines irritated Mme. de Burne. “ It is 
only,” he thought to himself, "the vexation of 
a coquette, the jealousy of the worldly woman 
from whom a rare knickknack has been 
stolen.” He suffered terribly ; he suffered 
especially at perceiving that she looked at 
them incessantly in a furtive and badly dis- 
simulated manner, and that his own attentions 


152 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


to Mme. Le Prieur caused her no uneasiness 
whatever. It was undoubtedly because she 
was sure of him, while Lamarthe was escap- 
ing her. 

Then, what was this love to her ; this love 
born of yesterday, and which controlled his 
entire being? 

At this moment M. de Pradon gave the 
signal for silence. Massival was opening the 
piano, and Mme. de Bratiane was approach- 
ing, taking off her gloves, for she was to sing 
the transports of Didon, when the door open- 
ed once more, and a young man on whom all 
eyes were instantly turned, entered the room. 

He was tall and slight, with curling whiskers, 
short blonde hair, and of a very aristocratic 
bearing. Even Mme. Le Prieur seemed 
affected. 

“ Who is he ? ” asked Mariolle. 

“ Why, do you not know him ? ” she asked, 
surprised. 

“ No ; I do not,” he replied. 

“ He is the Count Rodolphe de Bernhaus.” 

” Ah ! he who fought and killed Sigismond 
Fabre ? ” 

“ Yes ; the same,” she replied. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


153 


The story of this duel had created a sen- 
sation. The Count de Bernhaus was attached 
to the Austrian embassy, and was a diplornate 
with a brilliant future before him, a veritable 
Bismarck. One evening at an official recep- 
tion, he had overheard some slighting remarks 
about his sovereign, and resented them at 
once, with the inevitable result of a duel. 
His adversary was one of the most noted 
swordsmen of the day, but Bernhaus had 
killed him. This immediately acquired for 
him a celebrity a la Sarah Bernhardt, with 
the difference that his name appeared encircled 
in an aureole of poetic chivalry. Moreover, 
he was charming, a pleasant conversationalist, 
and exceedingly distinguished. Lamarthe 
called him: “The tamer of our beautiful, 
ferocious women.” 

He took a seat beside Mme. de Burne, 
with that air of gallantry that distinguished 
him, while Massival ran his fingers lightly 
over the ivory keys. 

All the guests changed their places, ap- 
proaching nearer that they might see as well 
as hear the singer. In these changes Lamar- 
the found himself near Mariolle. 


154 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


There was a silence of attention and expec- 
tation ; the musician began a slow, a very 
slow succession of notes, as if he were giving 
a musical recital. There were pauses, slight 
reprisals, series of little phrases, now lan- 
guishing, then nervous and agitated, but of 
surprising originality. 

Mariolle was dreaming. He saw a woman 
in the full beauty of ripe womanhood, walk- 
ing slowly by his side on the sands, bathed 
by the sea. He felt that she suffered, that 
her soul was filled with a presentiment of 
unhappiness ; then his gaze returned to Mme, 
de Bratiane. 

Motionless, pale under the mass of her 
heavy black hair, that seemed dipped into the 
night, this Italian woman, her eyes fixed 
before her, was waiting. There was in her 
determined face, and in her whole powerful 
and passionate being, something startling, 
one of those menacing storms that we augur 
from the somber heavens. 

Massival still continued the sorrowful his- 
tory he was relating in those sonorous tones. 

Suddenly a shudder agitated the frame of 
the singer. She opened her lips, and there 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


155 


came forth a wail of interminable and heart- 
rending anguish. Not one of those tones of 
tragic despair that singers on the stage ex- 
hale with dramatic gestures, neither was it 
one of those thrilling wails of deceived love 
that stir the sympathy of the audience; but it 
was the inexpressible cry from the body, not 
the soul, uttered like the howl of a crushed 
beast, or the cry of the feminine animal be- 
trayed. 

There was a hush, and then Massival re- 
sumed, with even more animation, the history 
of that miserable queen, abandoned by the 
man she loved. 

Then again her voice arose. She was now 
speaking, telling of the intolerable torture of 
solitude, of the unappeasable thirst of past 
caresses, and the agony of knowing that he 
was gone forever. 

Her vibrating and expressive voice made 
the hearts of her hearers shudder. This 
somber Italian, with her midnight hair, seemed 
to suffer all she told, to love, or at least to be 
capable of loving, with a furious ardor. 
When she had ended, her eyes were full of 
tears, and, while she wiped them slowly away. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


156 

Lamarthe, trembling with artistic emotion, 
leaned over to Mariolle, and said: 

“ Heavens ! how beautiful she is at this mo- 
ment. She is indeed a woman ! the only one 
here. ” Then, after a few seconds of reflec- 
tion, he added: 

“But, then, who can say? It is, perhaps, 
only the mirage of music, for nothing exists 
but illusions. But what art it requires to 
produce this illusion ! in fact, all illusions. ” 

There was an intermission between the first 
and second parts of this musical poem; and 
both the composer and its interpreter were 
warmly congratulated. Lamarthe especially 
was most ardent in his compliments; and he 
was truly sincere, being a man gifted to feel and 
understand. He was touched equally by all 
expressed forms of beauty. The flattering 
manner with which he told Mme. de Bratiane of 
the emotions he had felt in listening, brought 
the color to her cheeks, and the other women 
who listened were filled with vexation. He 
was not, perhaps, unconscious of the effect he 
had produced. 

When he returned to take his seat near 
Mme. de Fremines, he found it occupied by 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


157 


the Count Rodolphe de Bernhaus. They 
seemed to be enjoying a confidential conver- 
sation, smiling as if enchanted, and charmed 
by what they had to say. Mariolle,^ho was 
more and more gloomy, was leaning in the 
doorway when the novelist joined him. Big 
Fresnol, George de Maltry, Baron de Gravil, 
and Comte Marantin were surrounding Mme. 
de Burne, who was pouring out the tea. She 
seemed inclosed in a crown of admirers. 
Lamarthe remarked it ironically to his friend, 
adding : 

“ It is a crown without jewels, however ; 
and I am certain she would give all those 
Rhine stones for the brilliant that is wanting.” 

“ What brilliant ? ” asked Mariolle. 

“ Why, Bernhaus, of course ; the handsome, 
irresistible, incomparable Bernhaus, for 
whom this f^te is given, for whom this mira- 
cle has been accomplished. That is, the 
miracle of deciding Massival to produce his 
Didon Florentine here.” 

Andre, though incredulous, felt wounded to 
the heart. 

“ Has she known him long ? ” asked he. 

" Oh, no ! ten days at the most ; but she 


158 NOTRE CCEUR. 

has made strenuous efiforts, and employed 
many tactics to conquer. Had you been 
here you would have been much amused.” 

“ Ah ! why should I ? ” interposed Andre. 

“ She met him for the first time in Mme. 
de Fremines’ drawing-room. I was dining 
there that evening. Bernhaus is more than 
welcome there, as you can see. And behold ! 
the moment they had been presented, 
Mme. de Burne began at once the conquest 
of this unique Austrian. And she is suc- 
ceeding, she will succeed, although the little 
Fremines is her superior in tactics, in real in- 
difference, and, perhaps, in perversity. But, 
then, our friend de Burne is more perfect in 
coquetry, more woman ; I mean more of the 
modern woman. That is, she is irresistible 
through the artifices of seduction, which re- 
places in her the ancient and natural charm. 
Yet it is not quite the artifice, I should say, 
but the esthetic, the profound sense of the 
feminine esthetic ; all her power lies in that. 
She knows herself to be admirable, because 
she is more pleased with herself than with 
anything else, and she never makes a mis- 
take on the best means of conquering a man. 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


159 

She is always sure to display the merits most 
likely to capture us.” 

“ I believe you exaggerate,” protested 
Mariolle. “With me she has always been 
very simple.” 

“ Because simplicity is the bait that at- 
tracts you ; however, I do not wish to say 
anything against her; I think her superior to 
all of her kind. But, then, they are not 
women.” 

Here they were interrupted by the sound 
of music, a nd Mme. de Bratiane sang the sec- 
ond part of the poem, in which she was truly 
a superb Didon of physical passion and sensual 
despair. 

But Lamarthe’s eyes never left Mme. de 
Fremines and Count de Bernhaus. 

As soon as the last vibration of the piano 
had died away amid the loud applause, he re- 
sumed, with a tinge of irritation in his voice, 
as if continuing a discussion, or as if answer- 
ing an adversary: 

“No; they are not women. The most hon- 
est among them are unscrupulous jades; the 
better I know them, the less I find in them that 
sensation of sweet happiness that a true 


l6o NOTRE CCEUR. 

woman should give us. They intoxicate us, 
it is true, but it is by exasperating our nerves, 
for they are adulterated. Oh ! it is well 
enough to taste it, but it is not worth the true 
wine of other days. As you know, my dear 
friend, woman was created and placed into 
this world for two things only, ‘ love and chil- 
dren.’ These are the only things that will 
make her true and excellent qualities bloom. 
I am speaking like M. Prudhomme. They 
are incapable of love, and they do not want 
children; when they do have them, by acci- 
dent, it is first a misfortune, then a burden. 
Truly they are monsters !” 

Astonished at the violent tone of the writer 
and the angry look in his eyes, Mariolle asked: 

“Then, i^by do you spend half of your life 
tagged onto their skirts ? ” 

“Why? why?” repeated Lamarthe, with 
vivacity; “why? Because they interest me. 
Parbleu. And then — and then — would you 
forbid doctors to enter the hospitals to look 
at the sick? These women are my clinic.” 

This last reflection seemed to calm him, 
and he added : 

“Then, I admire them because they are 


NOTRE CCEUR. l6l 

well enough for to-day; and, at heart, I am 
no more a man than they are women. When 
I have become somewhat attached to one of 
them, I amuse myself by discovering and ex- 
amining all that would repel me, with the 
curiosity of a chemist who poisons himself to 
experiment with venoms.” 

After a short silence, he again resumed : 
“ In that way, I shall never be really pinched 
by them. I can play their game as well as 
they ; better, perhaps ; and, besides, they are 
useful for my books, while their doings are 
of no use to them. How stupid they are L 
All failures, delicious failures ! who, when 
they become sensible of their misfortunes, 
are devoured with regret as they grow old.” 

While Mariolle listened, he felt one of those 
sadnesses invading his heart, like the damp 
melancholy with which long continued rains 
depress the earth. 

Somewhat irritated; he protested, not so 
much to defend woman as to indicate the 
causes of their disenchanting mobility, which 
were due to the literature of the day. 

“ At the time when poets and novelists ex- 
alted and made them dream.” said he, “they 

Notre Coeur ii 


i 62 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


searched, and believed they found in life the 
equivalent of what their heart had discovered 
in the literature of the period. To-day you 
obstinately suppress all the poetic and seduc- 
tive appearances, to show only the disillusion- 
ing realities. Therefore, my dear friend, if 
you had more love in your books, there would 
be more of it in life; you were inventors of 
ideals; they believed in your inventions. 
Now you only evoke precise realities, and 
they have come to believe in the vulgarity of 
all things.” 

Lamarthe, whom all literary discussions in- 
terested, was beginning a dissertation, when 
Mme. de Burne approached. 

This was one of her good days. She wore 
a ravishing costume, and had that audacious 
and provoking expression which the sensa- 
tion of a struggle always gave her. She 
smiled, saying: 

“This is what I enjoy: to surprise two men 
who are conversing, without speaking of me. 
You are, nevertheless, the only two interested 
beings here. What were you discussing ? ” 

Lamarthe, without any embarrassment, and 
in a tone of bantering gallantry, revealed the 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


163 


subject of their conversation. He then re- 
sumed his arguments with a vim accentuated 
by a desire of parade, which excites all seek- 
ers of fame before women. 

The subject of this discussion immediately 
interested her, and, excited by the arguments, 
she defended the modern woman with a great 
deal of intelligence, wit and apropos. A few 
phrases on fidelity and attachment, of which 
the more susceptible are capable, made 
Mariolle’s heart beat, though this was in- 
comprehensible to the novelist. And when 
she had left them to join Mme. de Fremines, 
who had obstinately retained Count de Bern- 
haus at her side until now, Lamarthe and 
Mariolle, charmed by all the grace and femi- 
nine science she had displayed, declared to 
each other that she was incontestably ex- 
quisite. 

“ And look at her now ! ” exclaimed the 
novelist. 

It was the grand duel. What would these 
two women and the Austrian speak of now t 
Mme. de Burne had arrived just at that 
moment when the too prolonged tete-a-tete 
of two persons, even when pleasant, becomes 


NOTRE CCEVR. 


164 

monotonous, and she interrupted them by 
relating, with an indignant air, all she had 
heard from the lips of Lamarthe. Indeed, all 
this could be well applied to Mme. de 
Fremines, as it was due to her most recent 
conquest, and, moreover, it was repeated 
before a man who was intelligent enough to 
understand it all. This eternal question of 
love turned again into a warm discussion, 
and the hostess soon beckoned Mariolle and 
Lamarthe to join them ; then, as the discussion 
became more animated, she called every- 
body. 

A general discussion followed, gay and 
passionate, in which each one found some- 
thing to say, and in which Mme. de Burne 
found the means of being the wittiest and the 
most amusing. She even allowed herself to 
be carried away by sentiment, fictitious per- 
haps, and gave very interesting opinions, for 
this was truly one of her days of success. 
She was more animated, more intelligent and 
prettier than ever. 


CHAPTER IV. 


As SOON as Andre Mariolle had left Mme. 
de Burne, the charm of her presence faded 
away ; he felt in him and around him, in his 
flesh, in his soul, in the air and in everything, 
a sort of evaporation of the happiness of liv- 
ing that had sustained and animated him for 
some time past. 

What had taken place Nothing, almost 
nothing. She had been charming for him at 
the end of the evening ; by one or two glances 
she had said : “There is no one here but you 
for me.” And notwithstanding this, she had 
just made revelations to him that he would 
have wished to ignore always. That also 
was nothing, almost nothing ; but he, never- 
theless, remained stupefied, like a man who 
has just discovered a suspicious action of his 
father or mother. He had learned that dur- 
ing those twenty days that he had believed 
entirely devoted to him, as he had devoted 
them to her, to that sentiment of love, so new 


NOTRE CCEUR 


1 66 

and so sincere ; she had resumed her old 
existence, made so many visits, so many pro- 
jects, and recommenced those odious struggles 
with her rivals. She had been surrounded 
by men, received their compliments with 
pleasure, and had displayed all her charms 
for others. 

Already ! she had done all this already ! 
Later it might not have surprised him, he 
knew the world, women and sentiments ; and 
he could not have had those excessive ex- 
igencies nor these gloomy inquietudes. She 
was beautiful, born to please, to receive the 
homage and flattery of the world. Among 
them all she had chosen him ; she had given 
herself to him generously and royally. He 
must remain, yes, he would remain, the faith 
ful servant of her caprices, and the resigned 
spectator of her gay life. But something 
within him suffered; in that obscure cavern 
in the depths of the soul where the delicate 
sensibilities are hidden. 

He was wrong, undoubtedly, and had al- 
ways been wrong since he knew himself. He 
passed through the world with too much sen- 
timental prudence ; the envelope of his soul 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


167 


was too tender, and from this came that kind 
of isolation in which he had lived, through 
the fear of contact with the world. He was 
wrong, for these bruises come nearly always 
because we do not admit, and do not tolerate 
in others, a nature different from our own. 
He knew it, having often observed it, but he 
could not modify the vibrations particular to 
his being. 

Indeed, he had nothing to reproach her for; 
if she had kept him far away from her draw- 
ing-room, and hidden in those days of happi- 
ness, it was to evade suspicion, to be his more 
assuredly afterward. Why, then, had this 
sadness entered his heart ? Oh ! why ? It 
was because he had believed her to be entirely 
his, and he had just discovered that he could 
never seize and possess this woman who be- 
longed to the world. 

He well knew, moreover, that life is made 
up of almosts," and until now he had been 
resigned to it, hiding his discontent and in- 
sufficient satisfactions under a voluntary 
unsociability. But he had thought that at 
last he would obtain the ‘"altogether" so long 
expected and hoped for; but, alas! the “alto- 


1 68 


NO TRE CCEUR. 


gather ” is not of this world. The evening 
had been melancholy, and he consoled himself 
by reasoning on the painful impression he 
had experienced. 

When he had gone to bed, this impression, 
instead of diminishing, only increased, and, 
as he never left anything unexplored, he 
searched for the origin of this new uneasiness 
in his heart. These doubts passed, came 
and went, like icy breaths, awakening in his 
love a, as yet, feeble pain, far away, but dis- 
quieting, like those vague neuralgic pains, 
given birth by a current of air, menacing the 
victim with horrible suffering. 

He understood that he was jealous. Until 
he had seen her surrounded by men, he had 
ignored this sensation, although he had fore- 
seen it somewhat; but he had supposed it dif- 
ferent, much different, to what it would now 
become. He had supposed his mistress 
solely occupied with him in those days of 
secret and frequent rendezvous, during that 
period of first caresses that should have been 
all isolation and ardent emotion. He now 
refound her as much, and even more amused 
and interested, in all those ancient and futile 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


169 


coquetries, than before the day she had given 
herself to him, and this wasting of her person 
to the first comer must leave but little of her- 
self to the preferred one. He felt this jeal- 
ousy more in the flesh than in the heart, 
not in a vague way, like an approaching fever, 
but in a precise way, for he doubted her. 

First he doubted through instinct, through 
a sensation of doubt which ran in his veins, 
rather than in his thoughts, by that almost 
physical discontent of the man who is not 
sure of his mistress, and, after doubting thus, 
he began to suspect. 

After all, what was he to her ? A first lover 
or the tenth, the successor of M. de Burne, or 
the successor of Lamarthe, of Massival, of 
George de Maltry, and, perhaps, the prede- 
cessor of Count de Bernhaus. What did he 
know of her ? That she was ravishingly 
pretty, more elegant, more intelligent and 
witty than all the rest, but changeable, soon 
wearied, fatigued, and disgusted; in love with 
herself, first of all, and an insatiable coquette. 

Had she had a lover — or lovers — before 
him ? If she had had none, would she have 
given herself to him so boldly ? Where would 


170 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


she have conceived the audacity to open the 
door of his chamber that nig^ht in a tavern ? 
Would she, then, have been so easily induced 
to come to that cottage at Auteuil ? Before 
consenting, she had simply asked those few 
questions that a prudent and experienced 
woman might have asked. He had answered 
circumspectly, like a man accustomed to 
these meetings, and she had immediately said 
“ yes,” satisfied and reassured, and probably 
experienced through former adventures. 

With what discreet authority she had 
knocked at the little gate, behind which he 
awaited her with a faltering and beating heart ! 
How she had entered without any visible 
emotion, her only preoccupation being to as- 
sure herself that she would not be recognized 
by the neighbors. How she had immediately 
felt at home in this cottage, rented and fur- 
nished for their secret meetings. Would a 
woman, however bold, indifferent to morals 
and disdainful of prejudices, have retained 
that calmness in entering her first rendez- 
vous as a novice ? Would she not have felt 
the mental troubles, physical hesitations, and 
the instinctive fear of footsteps treading un- 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


171 

known ground, if she were not experienced 
in these excursions of love, and if the practice 
of these things had not already worn out her 
natural modesty ? 

Enfevered by that irritating and intolerable 
fever that the pangs of the heart awaken in 
the silence of the night, Mariolle became agi- 
tated, dragged along by this chain of suppo- 
sitions, like a man gliding down a declivity. 
From time to time, he tried to arrest the prog- 
ress of his thoughts; he searched for, found 
and tasted reassuring reflections. But a germ 
of fear was within him, of which he could not 
foresee the issue. 

However, what had he to reproach her ? 
Nothing but that she was not like him; did 
not understand life as he did, and had not in 
her heart a sensibility that responded to his 
own. 

As soon as he awoke the following morn- 
ing, the desire to see her, to strengthen his 
faith in her, by her near presence, grew on 
him like a thirst, and he awaited with im- 
patience the time when he could present 
himself. 

When she saw him entering the drawing- 


172 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


room, where she was seated writing- letters, 
she came toward him with her two hands 
extended. 

“ Ah ! good morning, my dear friend ! ” 
said she, with an air of such sincere joy that all 
his odious thoughts, a shadow of which still 
floated in his mind, were evaporated. 

He took a seat by her side, and told her of 
his changed love. He explained, with tender 
words, that there are two species of lovers : 
they who desire wildly, and whose ardor 
fades away on the day of triumph, and they 
whom the possession enslaves and captures, 
and in whom sensual love, mingled to the 
spiritual and inexpressible appeal that the 
heart of the man makes toward a woman, 
gives birth to the servitude of complete and 
torturing love. 

Torturing indeed, and always, however 
happy he may be, for nothing satiates, even 
during the most intimate moments, the need 
of “ Her,” which we carry within us. 

Mme. de Burne listened, charmed, grateful, 
and exalted by his words ; carried away, as 
when the actor plays his role powerfully, and 
when this r 61 e moves us by awakening an 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


173 


echo in our own life. It was, indeed, an 
echo — the troubling- echo of a sincere pas- 
sion — but it was not within her that this 
passion cried out. She felt so pleased to 
have given birth to this sentiment, so pleased 
that it had been awakened in a man capable 
of expressing it thus, in a man who decidedly 
pleased her very much, and' to whom she was 
really attached, and whom she needed more 
and more every day. Not, however, on ac- 
count of her heart, but on account of that 
mysterious feminine being, so eager for love, 
homage, and conquests. She was so pleased 
that she felt a desire to embrace him, to offer 
him her lips, her whole self, that he might 
continue to worship her thus. 

She answered without embarrassment and 
without prudery; with that tact with which 
certain women are gifted, telling him that 
he was dearer to her than ever before. 
And, as it chanced, no one called until twi- 
light, they remained together, speaking of 
their love, caressing each other with words 
that did not have the same meaning to both 
hearts. 

The lamps had just been lighted when Mme. 


174 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


de Bratiane was announced. Mariolle took 
his leave, and, as Mme. de Burne accompanied 
him to the first drawing-room, he whispered: 

“ When shall I see you over there ? ” 

“ Shall we say Friday ?” she suggested. 

“Very well; what time shall I expect 
you ? ” 

“ At three o’clock, as usual,” she replied. 

“Adieu, till Friday, then, my adored one,” 
said Mariolle. 

During those two days of waiting that sep- 
arated him from their rendezvous, he dis- 
covered a void in his heart he had never 
before experienced. Nothing existed for him 
but one woman. And as that woman was so 
near, and as only simple proprieties prevented 
him from joining her at every instant, or, 
of even living with her, he became exasper- 
ated in his solitude, in those interminable hours 
that glided by so slowly, in the absolute im- 
possibility of a thing so easy. 

On the next Friday he was at the rendez- 
vous three hours too soon, but it relieved him 
to await there after so much mental suffering 
in waiting where she would never come. 

He placed himself behind the gate long 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


175 


before the so much longed-for three strokes 
of the clock, and, when he at last heard them, 
he trembled with impatience. The quarter 
struck; he opened the gate, and looked cau- 
tiously down the street. It was deserted 
from one end to the other. The minutes 
wore on with a torturing slowness, and he 
consulted his watch incessantly. When the 
hand reached the half-hour he had the im- 
pression that he had been standing in this 
place for an incalculable period. Suddenly 
he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, 
and then the light knock on the gate made 
him forget his anguish, and moved him with 
gratitude toward her. 

“Am I late } " she asked, breathless from 
her rapid walk. 

“ Not very,” he replied. 

“ Just imagine, I came near not coming at 
all. The house was full of people, and I did 
not know what to say to get rid of them,” 
said she, then added, “ Do you bear your own 
name here ? ” 

“No, but why do you ask?” said he. 

“Because, if I should ever be unable to 
come, I could send you a message.” 


176 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


“ I call myself M. Nicolle,” he informed her. 

“Very well, I will not forget it. How 
beautiful it is here ! ” 

The flowers had been cultivated, multi- 
plied and renewed by the gardener, who saw 
that his customer paid without a murmur for 
all that he could bring. 

“Let us sit down a few moments here,” 
said she, as they reached a bench beside a 
vase of heliotropes, “and I will tell you a 
funny story,” she added, and she related a 
squabble which had just taken place. 

It was said that Mme. Massival, the former 
mistress, and now the wife of the artist, exas- 
perated by jealousy, had penetrated into 
Mme. de Bratiane’s drawing-room, while the 
marquise was singing, accompanied by the 
composer, and she had made a terrible scene. 
You can imagine the fury of the Italian, the 
surprise and delight of the guests. 

Massival was frantic, and tried to drag 
his wife away, but she struck him in the face, 
tore his hair and beard. She clutched and 
held him motionless, while Lamarthe and two 
servants, who had been attracted by the 
noise, endeavored to release him. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


177 


Quiet was at last re-established by the de- 
parture of the husband and wife. Since then 
the musician has remained invisible, while 
the novelist, who had witnessed the scene, 
related it everywhere, in a very witty and 
amusing manner. 

Madame de Burne was still much excited, 
and so preoccupied by the occurrence that 
nothing seemed to divert her thoughts, and 
the names of Massival and Lamarthe re- 
curring incessantly to her lips, vexed Mari- 
olle. 

“ And did you just hear of it ? ” he asked. 

“ Why, yes, scarcely an hour ago,” she 
answered. 

“ And that is why she is so late,” he thought, 
with bitterness, then added, aloud : “ Shall we 
go in ?” 

“ Certainly ! ” she murmured, absent-mind- 
edly. 

An hour later, when she had left him, for she 
was in a hurry, he returned to the solitary little 
cottage, and seated himself on a low chair 
near the window. In all his being, in all his 
soul, the impression that she had been no 
more his than if she had not come, had left a 

Notre Coeur 12 


178 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


dark void into which he looked. He saw noth- 
ing, he understood nothing. If she had not 
escaped his caresses, she had at least escaped 
the embrace of his heart, by a mysterious 
absence of the will to be his. She had not 
avoided him, but it seemed as if her heart 
had not come with her. It had remained 
somewhere, very far away, interested by other 
objects. 

He then clearly saw that he loved her with 
his senses as much as with his soul, more 
perhaps. The deception of his useless 
caresses impelled him with a frantic desire 
to run after her, to bring her back. But 
why, of what use, since her thoughts were 
elsewhere that day ? He must await the day 
and the hour when the whim of being loving 
would come to this absent mistress. 

He returned to his apartments slowly, 
wearied and with heavy steps, his eyes fixed 
on the ground, and perfectly tired of life. 
And he remembered that they had appointed 
no other rendezvous, neither at her house nor 
elsewhere. 


CHAPTER V. 


Until the beginning of the winter, she 
was almost faithful to their rendezvous. 
F'aithful, but not punctual. 

During the first three months she was al- 
ways from one to two hours late. As the 
autumn rains forced Mariolle to await her be- 
hind the gate, with an umbrella over his head, 
his feet sinking in the mud, and shivering with 
cold, he had a little pavilion erected that he 
might not get hoarse at each of their meet- 
ings. The trees were now divested of their 
verdure, the roses had been replaced by har- 
dier plants of all colors, filling the damp air, 
full of the melancholy odor of rain and dead 
leaves, with the balsamic and sad perfume 
of winter flowers. In front of th^ door were 
a profusion of rare plants, forming a large 
Maltese cross of delicate and varied shades, 
an invention of the gardener. And Mariolle 
never passed it without the thought that this 
blooming cross seemed to mark a grave. 

179 


i8o 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


He well knew these long waitings in the 
little pavilion. The falling rain would trickle 
against the walk and form a pool at his feet, 
and, at each station in this chapel of “wait- 
ing, ” the same reflections were in his mind, 
the same hopes, the same uneasiness, and the 
same discouragements. 

It was an incessant warfare, an exhaust- 
ing moral struggle, with something unattain- 
able, with something that, perhaps, did not 
exist; the affections of a woman’s heart. 

What an odd thing this rendezvous had 
become. Some days she would come smiling, 
animated with the desire of conversation, and 
she would seat herself without removing her 
hat or gloves, without raising her veil and 
without even kissing him. At such times her 
head would be filled with a host of captivat- 
ing preoccupations, more alluring than the 
desire of offering her lips to the kisses of a 
lover who was devoured by a hopeless ardor. 

He would seat himself by her side, his 
heart filled with burning words that his lips 
could not utter; he would listen, trying to 
appear interested in what she was relating, 
and he would sometimes take one of her 


NOTRE CCEUR. l8l 

hands, which she allowed him to retain almost 
without noticing it. 

At other times she would appear more lov- 
ing, but he would look at her with suspicious 
eyes, with the eyes of a lover who saw he 
was powerless to capture her whole heart, 
and understood that this relative affection was 
given him because her thoughts had not been 
diverted by anybody or anything else on 
those days. 

Her constant delays, moreover, proved to 
Mariolle her growing indifference. We come 
with hasty step toward what we love, and 
what attracts us ; but it is always too soon 
to reach a place that possesses no charm, 
and anything will serve as a pretext to delay 
this vaguely tiresome meeting. A singular 
comparison always recurred to his mind. 
During the summer a desire for cold water 
made him accelerate his daily toilet, and has- 
tened his step to the shower-bath, while during 
the cold weather he found so many little 
things to do before leaving home, that he 
always reached the bathing establishment an 
hour later than usual. Their rendezvous at 
Auteuil resembled those shower-baths for her. 


i 82 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


Moreover, of late she frequently postponed 
their rendezvous until the next day, sending 
him a dispatch at the last minute, seeming to 
be always in search of pretexts, which she 
always found acceptable, but which threw him 
into moral agitations, in an intolerable physi- 
cal nervous state. 

Had she shown any coldness or any weari- 
ness of this ever-growing passion in him, he 
would perhaps have become irritated, then 
angry, then discouraged, and then appeased. 
But, on the contrary, she showed herself more 
attached, more flattered by his love, and 
more desirous of retaining it, without respond- 
ing to it with anything but friendly prefer- 
ences, that were beginning to excite the jeal- 
ousy of her other admirers. 

At her own house, she could not see him 
enough, and the same message that an- 
nounced to Andre a postponement for Auteuil, 
always begged him to come and dine with 
her, or to spend a few hours in the evening. 
He had at first taken these invitations as com- 
pensations for his disappointment, for she 
must really love to see him, she must have 
need of him, of his tender words, of his loving 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


183 


looks, of his enveloping affection, and of the 
discreet caresses of his presence. She needed 
him just as an idol, to become a true god, has 
need of prayer and faith. In her empty chapel 
she was but a piece of sculptured wood. But 
only one believer entered this sanctuary, 
adored, implored and trembled with fervor; 
she became the equal of Bramah or of Allah, 
for every loved being is a species of god. 

More than any one else, Mme. de Burne 
felt herself born for the role of a fetich, for 
that mission given to woman, by being adored 
and pursued, of triumphing over men by 
beauty, charms and coquetry. 

She was indeed that species of human 
goddess, delicate, disdainful, exacting and 
haughty, which the loving worship of men 
deify, and please like incense. 

Nevertheless, she openly showed a lively 
predilection for Mariolle, without caring what 
rnight be said of it, and, perhaps, with a 
secret desire of inflaming and exasperating 
the others. He spent most of his life in her 
home ; seated in a large arm-chair that 
Lamarthe called “The stall of the chosen 
one,” and she experienced a sincere pleasure 


184 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


in spending entire evenings with him, chat- 
ting and listening to him. 

She was acquiring a taste for this intimacy, 
for this incessant contact with an agreeable 
and enlightened intelligence, which was now 
entirely her own, of which she was as much 
mistress as of the knickknacks on the table. 
She confided to him, by degrees, a great deal 
of herself, her thoughts, of her secret indi- 
viduality, in those affectionate confidences 
that are as sweet to make as to receive. 
She felt more at ease, more sincere, with him 
than with any one else. She also felt this 
impression, dear to a woman, of giving into 
the keeping of some one, all that is disposable 
of her, which was something she had never 
done before. 

This was a great deal for her, but to him 
it was very little. He awaited, he still hoped, 
for the grand indefinite rush of the being 
that gives its soul with its caresses. 

Caresses, she considered useless, bother- 
some, and even painful. She submitted to 
them, was not insensible to them, but soon 
tired of them, and this lassitude no doubt 
awakened in her a sort of ennui. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


185 


When, at the close of his visits, he passion- 
ately kissed her neck at the roots of her golden 
hair, she always shrunk slightly from him; 
there was always an almost imperceptible 
contraction of the skin under the touch of 
these strange lips. 

This shrinking from his touch was like a 
dagger in his heart, and he returned to his 
solitude deeply wounded in his affections. 
Why had she never had that period of ardor 
which comes to most women with the volun- 
tary gift of themselves ? True, it is some- 
times of short duration, but it is seldom that 
it has not the existence of an hour or of a day. 
This mistress had not made a lover of him, 
but only an intelligent companion. 

He did not complain, but he feared. He 
feared the one who would come suddenly ; to- 
day or to-morrow perhaps. He might be 
an artist, a man of the world, an officer, or a 
strolling actor; it mattered not whom or what, 
but that he was born to please the eyes of 
women, and to please through no other reason 
than that he was the one; the one, who for 
the first time would penetrate her with the 
imperious desire of opening her arms to him. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


l86 

He was now jealous of the future, as he 
had been of the unknown past; and all her 
intimate friends were becoming jealous of 
him in turn. They said a great deal among 
themselves, and even made indiscreet and ob- 
scure allusions before her. Some declared 
he was her lover, while others followed the 
opinion of Lamarthe, pretending that she was 
only amusing herself, as usual, by infatuating 
him and exasperating them; nothing more. 
Her father remonstrated, but she received his 
observations with haughty silence, and, by a 
curious contradiction of her prudence of a life- 
time, the more this rumor spread the more 
openly she demonstrated her preference for 
Mariolle. 

But he was disturbed by these remarks of 
suspicion, and spoke of them to her. 

“ I am not disturbed in the least,” she re- 
plied. 

“ If you only truly loved me, at least,” he 
remarked. 

“And do I not love you, my friend.^” said 
she, surprised. 

“Yes, and no,” he replied. “You love me 
well enough at your home, and badly else- 


NOTRE CCEUR. 1 87 

where. I should prefer the contrary for me, 
and also for yourself. ” 

“ We can only do what we can, ” she laughed. 
“If you only knew,” he resumed, “what 
agitations the efforts I make to animate you, 
cause me. I am sometimes oppressed by the 
thought that I am trying to reach the unat- 
tainable, to animate a block of ice that freezes 
me while melting in my arms. ” 

She did not reply, for the subject was not 
pleasing to her; and she assumed that absent- 
minded air he had so often remarked at Au- 
teuil. 

He dared not insist. He looked on her as 
we do on those precious objects in museums 
that have such a great attraction for us, and 
yet cannot be touched too closely. 

His days and nights continued to be so 
many hours of suffering for him, for he lived 
with this fixed idea, or, perhaps, more with the 
sentiment than with the idea, that she be- 
longed to him without being his, was con- 
quered, yet free, caught yet not captured. 
He lived around her, very near her, without 
ever getting to her ; and he loved her with 
all the unresisting covetousness of his soul 


NOTRE cm UR. 


i88 

and of his body. As he had done at the be- 
ginning of their liaison, he recommenced to 
write to her. With the assistance of ink he 
had stormed and taken the first defenses of 
her virtue ; with the aid of ink he would, 
perhaps, carry this last redoubt of secret 
resistance. He called less frequently, but 
repeated in his almost daily letters the inanity 
of his efforts of love. 

From time to time, when he had been very 
eloquent, passionate, suffering, she had 
answered. His letters, dated at all hours of 
the night and of the early morning, were clear, 
concise, thoughtful, devoted, encouraging, 
and gloomy. She reasoned with him in an 
intelligent and even in an odd way. But, 
although he might re-read them and be con- 
vinced of the justice of her views, although 
he found them intelligent, well turned, and 
graceful, and although satisfying to his manly 
vanity, they did not content his heart. They 
were no more satisfying than the kisses given 
in those meetings at Auteuil. 

He searched for the reason of all this. 
And by dint of reading and re-reading what 
she ■ had written, he at last discovered it. 


NOTRF. CCEUR. 


i8g 


for it is always through their writing that 
we best understand people. Words dazzle 
and deceive, because they are mimicked by 
the features ; because we see them come from 
the lips, and these lips please us, and the eyes 
bewitch us. But words in black, on white 
paper, are the naked soul. 

A man, through the artifices of rhetoric, 
through professional ability, through the habit 
of using the pen to treat of the affairs of life, 
often succeeds in disguising his true nature in 
his impersonal prose, useful or literary. But 
a woman seldom writes but to speak of her- 
self, and she imparts a little of herself to each 
word. She does not know the artifices of 
style, and she gives herself entirely in the 
innocence of her expressions. He remem- 
bered the correspondences and the memoirs 
of celebrated women which he had read. 
How clearly defined were the affected, witty 
or sensible women. What struck him most 
in Mme. de Burne’s letters was, that no sen- 
sibility was ever revealed. “That woman 
thinks, but does not feel,” he said to himself, 
as he remembered other letters received by 
him. A little bourgeoisie whom he had met 


190 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


traveling, and who had loved him for three 
months, had written him delicious little notes 
full of vibrating emotions. He had even been 
astonished by the suppleness of her thoughts, 
the elegance and variety of her phrases. 
Whence came this gift? From her suscepti- 
bility, no doubt. A woman does not write in 
those terms ; it is direct emotion that con- 
structs her expressions ; she does not search 
out her words in the dictionary. When she 
feels her strength, she expresses herself 
clearly without trouble and without search, in 
the mobile sincerity of her nature. 

He was now trying to penetrate the sin- 
cerity of his mistress’ nature through the lines 
she had written. They were pleasant and 
clever. But could she find no more to say to 
him ? Ah ! he had found true words burning 
like ardent coals for her ! 

When his valet brought his mail to him in 
the morning he searched eagerly for the well- 
known writing, and, when he had found it, an 
involuntary emotion surged within him, fol- 
lowed by a violent beating of the heart. He 
would hasten to tear open the envelope. 
“ What would she say to him ? ” Would the 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


191 


word “ love ” be found in those lines ? Never 
had she used that word without being fol- 
lowed by "well” — "I love you well ” — "I 
love you very much ” — Do I not love you ? ” 
He knew all these formulas that expressed 
nothing through what has been added. Can 
any proportion exist in love ? Can we judge 
whether we love well or badly ? To love 
much is to love but little ! We love, nothing 
more, nothing less. We cannot complete 
that. We can imagine nothing, we can say 
nothing, beyond that one word. It is short, 
but it is all ; it becomes the body, the soul, 
the life, the entire being. We feel it as we 
feel the warmth of the blood, we breathe it as 
we do the air, we carry it within us as we 
carry the "thought,” for it becomes the 
unique "thought.” Nothing more exists but 
it. 

It is not a word, it is an inexpressible state, 
represented by a few letters. Whatever we 
may say, we do nothing, we see nothing, we 
experience nothing, we suffer nothing — as we 
did before. Mariolle had become the prey 
of that little verb, and his eyes ran over the 
lines, searching in them the revelation of a 


192 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


love like his own. He found many things 
that meant “ she loves me well,” but nothing 
to exclaim “ she loves me ! ” She continued 
in her correspondence the pretty and poetic 
romance commenced at Mont-Saint-Michel. 
It was a literature of love, but it was not love. 

When he had finished reading and re-read- 
ing them, he locked up these cherished papers 
in his desk. 

Then her letters became fewer; she was 
no doubt tired of constructing phrases, and 
repeating the same thing. She was, more- 
over, traversing one of those periods of 
worldly agitations that Andre had foreseen, 
with that heartache which the smallest dis- 
agreeable incidents caused him. 

It was a winter of fetes. An intoxication 
of pleasure had invaded Paris. The fiacres 
and coupes rolled incessantly through the 
streets the whole nightlong. The contagion, 
like an epidemic of pleasure, had suddenly 
overcome all classes of society, and Mme. de 
Burne was one of its first victims. 

She had achieved an immense success as a 
beauty at a ballet dance at the Austrian em- 
bassy. Count de Bernhaus had established 


NOTRE CCEUR. I93 

intimate relations between her and the am- 
bassadress, the Princess de Malten, who had 
been charmed by her new friend, and, through 
her, Mme de Burne had extended her rela- 
tions with the nobility and the diplomatic 
world with great rapidity. Her grace, her 
charm, her elegance, her intelligence, and her 
rare wit, brought her quick triumphs. She 
soon became the rage, and the best titled 
women of France sought her drawing-room. 

Every Monday a long line of carriages, 
blazing with armorial crests, were stationed 
along the sidewalks of the Rue du General - 
Foy. The servants lost their heads, and 
confounded duchesses and marquises, count- 
esses and baronesses, when calling out these 
high-sounding names at the door of the 
drawing-room. 

She was completely enchanted by it all. 
The compliments, invitations and homage, 
the sensation of becoming one of those 
favored pets of society, one of the elite of 
whom all Paris was speaking, had awakened 
in her heart an acute attack of snobbishness. 

This revolution brought about a close al- 
liance among her former friends ; the whole 

Notre CcEur 13 ^ 


1^4 NOTRE CCEUR. 

clan of artists tried to struggle against it/ 
Even Fresnol was accepted and enrolled in 
the ranks, and became a power among them. 
Mariolle was their chosen leader, for they 
acknowledged his ascendency over her and 
the friendship she still felt for him. 

But he looked on, and saw her vanishing in 
that worldly and flattering popularity, as a 
child who has broken the string of his balloon 
watches it disappear. 

She seemed to be gliding away in the midst 
of this elegant and joyous throng, far away, 
very far from that great secret happiness that 
he had so much hoped for; and he was jealous 
of everybody, of all those men and women, 
and of everything. He detested the life she 
was leading, all the people whom she met, all 
the fetes she attended, the balls, the concerts, 
and the theater; for all these took possession 
of her by parcels, absorbed her days and 
nights, and their intimacy was now limited to 
her few hours of liberty. 

He became almost ill from the sufferings 
caused by his ferocious hatred, and he pre- 
sented such a ghastly appearance when he 
called one day, that she asked: 


NOTRE CCEUR. 1 95 

“ What is the matter with you ? You look 
so pale; are you ill ?” 

“Yes, I am indeed ill,” he replied; “and 
my illness is that I love you too much.” 

“ We can never love too much, my friend,” 
she said, with a grateful look, 

" What ! and you admit that,” he exclaimed. 

“Why, yes, and I believe it too,” she 
said. 

“And you do not understand that I am 
dying through vain love of you,” he con- 
tinued. 

“ First, you do not love me in vain. And, 
then, no one dies of love. Besides, all our 
friends are jealous of you, which proves that 
I do not treat you so very badly. ” 

“ You do not understand me,” he said, tak- 
ing her hand. 

“Yes, ’’she replied, “I do; I understand 
you too well.” 

“ You, then, hear-'the despairing appeal my 
heart is incessantly pouring forth ? ” 

“ Yes, and I understand it.” 

“And?” he interrupted. 

“And it causes me a great deal of pain, for 
I love you enormously. ” 


196 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


“Then ” 

“Then you cry out to me; ‘Be like me; 
think, feel, and express yourself as I do.’ 
But, my dear friend, I cannot. I am what I 
am. You must accept me as God made me. 
I have given myself entirely to you, and I do 
not regret it. I have no desire to be free, 
for you are dearer to me than any one else I 
know. ” 

“You do not love me!” he interrupted, 
despairingly. 

“I love you with all the power of loving 
that is in me. If it is not different or greater, 
is it my fault ? ” she replied. 

“ If I were only sure of that, I would, 
perhaps, be contented, ” he said. 

“ What do you mean by these words 1 ” 
she asked. 

“ I mean that I believe you capable of lov- 
ing otherwise, but I no longer believe myself 
capable of inspiring in you a veritable love.” 

“ No, no, my friend, you are mistaken. 
You are more to me than any one has ever 
been, and more than any one shall ever be — 
at least, I positively believe so. With you I 
have the great merit of not lying, of not sim- 


NOTRE CaSUR. 


197 


ulating what you desire, when many women 
would do otherwise. Give me credit for it. 
Do not agitate yourself ; have confidence in 
my affection, which is yours entirely and 
sincerely.” 

“ Ah ! what an odd way of understanding 
and talking of love ! ” he murmured, realizing 
how far apart they really were. “ To you I 
am only some one whom you desire to have 
often seated beside you, but for me you fill 
the world. I see only you ; I feel only you ; 
I have need of no one but you.” 

“ I know it, I believe it, and I understand 
' it,” she said, smiling radiantly. “ I am en- 
raptured by it, and say to you : Continue to 
love me always as you do now, if possible, for 
it is a great happiness to me; but do not 
force me to play a comedy which would be 
painful to me and unworthy of us both. I 
have felt this crisis coming for some time. It 
is very cruel to me, for I am profoundly at- 
tached to you; but I cannot bend my nature 
to make it similar to yours. Take me as I 
am.” 

“ Have you ever thought, have you ever 
believed, even for a day, even for an hour, 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


that you could love me otherwise ? ” he asked, 
suddenly. 

She was embarrassed, and reflected a few 
moments before answering-. He was await- 
ing anxiously, and added : 

“You see clearly, you see it well, that you 
also have dreamed of other things.” 

“ I may have been mistaken in myself,” she 
murmured, slowly. 

“ Oh ! what psychologic wisdom ! ” he cried, 
“We cannot reason thus with the impulses 
of the heart.” 

She was still thinking, interested in her 
own thoughts, in this searching of her own 
heart, and finally said : 

“ Before I loved you as I do, I had for a 
time believed, in fact, that I might have for 
you more of more of more of en- 
thusiasm , but, then, I would certainly 

have been less simple, less frank , perhaps 

less sincere later on.” 

“Why less sincere, later on?” he inter- 
posed. 

“ Because you inclose love in this formula, 
‘ all or nothing ! ’ and this ‘ all or nothing,’ to 
my way of reasoning signifies, ‘ all now, and 


NOTRE CCEVR. 


199 


nothing later on.’ And it is when this noth- 
ing commences that a woman begins to dis- 
simulate.” 

“ But you do not understand my misery,” 
he replied, agitatedly, “ and the torture of 
the thought that you might have loved me 
otherwise. You have felt this; therefore it is 
another whom you shall love thus.” 

” I do not believe it,” she said, unhesitat- 
ingly. 

“And why? Yes, why? From the moment 
that you have the presentiment of love, that 
you are impressed by the suspicion of this 
torturing and unattainable hope of mingling 
your life, your soul; with that of another 
being, of disappearing in him, of becoming 
part of himself, you will then feel the pos- 
sibility of this inexpressible emotion, and it 
will surely come to you some day or other, 
and you will then believe it.” 

“ No ; it was my imagination that deceived 
me. I have given you all that I can give. I 
have reflected a great deal on this since I 
became your mistress. Note that I fear 
nothing, not even words. Truly I am 
thoroughly convinced that I can love no 


200 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


more, nor better, than I love you at this 
moment. You see that I speak to you as I 
speak to myself, and I do this because you 
penetrate everything, and it is better to hide 
nothing from you. It is the only means of 
linking ourselves closely, and for a long 
time. This is what I hope, my friend.” 

He listened, drinking in her words as a 
man dying of thirst, and he fell on his knees 
before her, kissed the two little hands, mur- 
muring: “ Thanks, my own beloved.” When 
he raised his head to contemplate her, he 
saw two tears flowing down her cheeks ; she 
then placed her arms around his neck, drew 
him gently toward her, and kissed him on 
both eyes. 

“ Sit down beside me,” she said, quietly. 
“ It is not prudent to kneel before me here.” 

After a few minutes of silence, during 
which they looked at each other lovingly, she 
asked him if he would some day conduct her 
to the expositions of the sculptor Predole, of 
whom everybody spoke with such enthu- 
siasm. 

She had a cupid in bronze by him, in her 
dressing-room; a charming little figure pour- 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


201 


ing the water into the bath, and she wished 
to see the complete works of this delicious 
artist, who, for the last week, had been the 
rage in Paris. 

They arranged the day, and then Mariolle 
arose to take his leave. 

“ Shall we go to Auteuil to-morrow } ” she 
asked, softly. 

And he went away dazzled with happiness, 
and intoxicated by that “ perhaps ” which 
never dies in the loving heart. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Mme. de Burne’s coupe rolled along the 
pavement of the Rue Crenelle as fast as the 
two horses could trot. It was the last days 
of April, and the hailstones beat furiously 
against the panes of the carriage, and re- 
bounded on the road, already covered by the 
white grains. The passers-by, under their 
umbrellas, hastened to seek more secure shel- 
ter. After two weeks of beautiful weather, 
that odious period of the last of winter again 
chilled and made everything shiver. 

Her feet on a cask of boiling water, her 
form enveloped in furs, whose velvety and 
soft caresses warmed her body, and conveyed 
a delicious feeling to the delicate skin that 
feared contacts, the young woman was think- 
ing painfully that, in an hour at most, she 
would have to take a fiacre and rejoin Mari- 
olle at Auteuil. 


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NOTRE CCEUR. 


203 


A great desire to send him a dispatch took 
possession of her; but, then, she had prom- 
ised herself, scarcely two months ago, that 
she would act thus as rarely as possible, for 
she was making a great effort to love him as 
he loved her. 

When she had seen his suffering, she had 
been moved to compassion, and after that 
conversation, when she had kissed his eyes 
in an impulse of true emotion, her sincere 
affection for him had indeed become warmer 
and more expansive for a short time. 

Surprised by her involuntary coldness, she 
had asked herself why she could not learn to 
love him as so many other women love their 
lovers, since she was so deeply attached to 
him, and since he pleased her more than any 
other man. 

This indifference could only come from an 
indolence of the heart, and this could, no 
doubt, be conquered like all other indolences. 

She tried, indeed. She tried to excite 
herself in thinking of him, to feel moved on 
the days of their rendezvous. She succeeded, 
sometimes, it is true, but as we succeed in 


204 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


becoming frightened at night by thinking of 
burglars and apparitions. 

She made great efforts, and even became 
animated a little in this passion, becoming 
more caressing, more loving. She succeeded 
quite well at first, making him delirious with 

joy- 

Then she began to believe in a growing 
fever, somewhat similar to that which con- 
sumed him. Her old intermittent hope of 
love she had thought attainable, that night 
she had decided to give herself to him, when 
dreaming under the milky fogs of the night, 
on the shores of the Bay Saint Michel, reap- 
peared, less seductive, less enveloped in ideal 
and poetic clouds, but more precise, more 
natural, and free of illusions, after the trial 
of their liaison. 

She had then called, and watched in vain, 
for that violent impulse of the entire being 
toward another, born, it is said, when the 
bodies, dragged on by the emotions of the 
soul, have been united. But that impulse 
had never come. 

She became obstinate in simulating affec- 
tion ; multiplying the rendezvous, and saying 


NOTRE cm UR. 


.205 


to him, frequently : “I feel that I love you 
more and more.” But a weariness soon in- 
vaded her, and she felt her inability to de- 
ceive herself and him much longer. She 
remarked, with astonishment, that his kisses 
importuned her, although she was not quite 
insensible to them. This she knew by that 
vague lassitude that took possession of her 
on those days she was to meet him there. 
Why was it, that, on such mornings, she did 
not feel moved by the expectation and desire 
of his embraces, like many other women 
might ? She accepted them resignedly, and 
that was all. Was it that her flesh was so deli- 
cate, so exceptionally aristocratic and refined, 
that it still retained a hidden modesty ; the 
modesty of a superior animal, ignored by her 
modern soul. 

Mariolle came to understand this, little by 
little, as he saw this fictitious ardor decreas- 
ing. He understood her devoted efforts, 
and an inconsolable grief glided into his 
heart. 

Now she had tried the experiment, and 
they both knew it was hopeless ; and even 
now she shuddered under her warm furs, and 


2o6 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


could not find the courage to leave her com- 
fortable carriage, and enter a cold fiacre to 
rejoin her poor lover. 

The idea of breaking off and avoiding his 
caresses did not for a moment enter her 
head. She knew that to entirely captivate a 
man and keep him for herself only, in the 
midst of rivals, she had to make sacrifices, 
that was undeniable. Besides, she wished to 
remain loyal to him. But why should she 
visit their rendezvous so often ? Would it 
not acquire a greater charm and a new at- 
traction if she were not so liberal with her 
visits ? 

She always went to Auteuil with the im- 
pression that she was making him a most 
precious offering, an inestimable gift, and she 
always felt the sensation of sacrifice. It was 
more the satisfaction of feeling herself 
generous than the happiness of being his. 

She even calculated that Andre ’s love 
would be more durable if she were not so 
generous, for all hunger is increased by fast. 
As soon as this resolution was taken she de- 
cided that she would go to Auteuil, but would 
feign an indisposition. And now that this 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


207 

determination was taken, she again smiled to 
herself. 

Nevertheless, for the first time, this meet- 
ing with a fixed hour, arranged the previous 
day like a business rendezvous or a medical 
consultation, assumed a somewhat vulgar ap- 
pearance. After a long and unexpected t^te- 
a-tete, there is nothing more natural than 
this kiss which springs from the charm of ten- 
der and affectionate words. But how different 
was this kiss without surprise, announced 
beforehand, that she went to receive once a 
week, with her watch in her hand. It was 
true that some days, when she was not to 
meet him, she felt a vague desire to go to 
him, while this desire never made its appear- 
ance when she had to join him with the ruses 
of a tracked criminal, suspicious roundabouts, 
in a filthy fiacre, and her mind distracted by 
all those disagreeable things. 

Ah ! that hour at Auteuil ! She had calcu- 
lated it on the clocks of all her friends, she 
had seen it approach minute by minute, when 
in Mme. de Fremines’ drawing-room, or, 
perhaps, in conversation with Mme. de Bra- 
tiane or the beautiful Mme. Le Prieur, when 


2o8 


NOTRE CCEUR- 


she had to await the hour outside of her 
home, that an unexpected visitor or an un- 
foreseen obstacle might not detain her. 

She suddenly said to herself: “I shall 
make a holiday of it to-day, and not go until 
late.” Then she opened a sort of invisible 
little placard hidden in the front of the coupe 
under the black silk with which the carriage 
— a veritable boudoir of a young woman — 
was wadded. When the two little doors of 
this hiding-place had been pushed aside, 
there appeared a mirror, which she raised and 
revealed behind it several small silver objects; 
a box of poudre-de-riz, a crayon for the lips, 
two bottles filled with perfume, an ink-bottle, 
pens, scissors, and a paper-cutter, which she 
often used to cut the leaves of the latest 
novel she read on the way. There was also an 
exquisite clock, small and round as a golden 
nut, and this now marked the hour of four. 

I have still an hour at least,” thought 
Mme. de Burne, and she touched a button to 
signal the footman that she wished to give 
him orders through the acoustic tube, then, 
placing her lips to the crystal mouthpiece, 
she said, simply : 


NOTRE cm UR. 


209 


“To the Austrian embassy.” 

She then glanced at herself in the mirror, 
with that' smile of satisfaction we always feel 
when we look at the person we love best, 
then she opened her furs to see that her dress 
was not disordered. It was an elegant win- 
ter toilet, the neck trimmed with fine white 
feathers, extending quite low down the 
shoulders, and the color deepening to a light 
gray, like the wing of a bird. Her whole 
form seemed entwined in this downy border, 
giving her the odd appearance of a wild bird. 
On her hat, a sort of toque, were feathers of 
more lively colors, and her pretty little blonde 
figure seemed ready to fly away with the 
water-fowl toward the sky, in the midst of 
this shower of hail. 

She was still contemplating herself, when 
the carriage turned abruptly under the large 
door of the Austrian embassy. She rear- 
ranged her furs, lowered the mirror, reclosed 
the little doors, and, when the coupe had 
stopped, she first turned to her coachman, 
saying: “ You may return home; I shall not 
need you,” Then, turning to the footman, 
who was coming down the steps, she asked: 

Notre Coeur 14 


210 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


“Is the princess at home?’’ 

“Yes, madame, ” he replied. 

She entered, ascended the stairs, and was 
ushered into a very small parlor, where the 
Princess de Malten was writing letters. 

Seeing her friend, the ambassadress arose, 
with an air of great delight, and they kissed 
each other affectionately twice, on the cheeks 
and on the lips. 

They seated themselves close together 
near the fire. They loved each other very 
much, pleased and understood each other on 
all points, for they were similar, of the same 
feminine race, had expanded in the same at- 
mosphere, and were gifted with the same 
sensations, although Mme. de Malten was a 
Swede married to an Austrian. They exer- 
cised a mysterious and singular attraction for 
each other, and from this sprung an agreeable 
feeling of contentment whenever they found 
themselves together. They would chat dur- 
ing entire half-days without interruption, 
interested both by the simple attractions of 
the same tastes their conversation revealed. 

“See how much I love you,” said Mme. de 
Burne; “you dine with me this evening, and 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


21 1 


I could not abstain from coming to see you 
this afternoon. It is a passion with me, my 
dear.” 

“ I share it with you,” replied the princess, 
smiling. 

And thus through a professional habit of 
coquetry, they complimented each other. Mme. 
de Burne, while conversing, did not forget to 
consult the clock frequently. Five o’clock was 
now striking; he had now been waiting 
over there an hour. “ It is enough,” she 
thought, as she arose. 

“ Going so soon ? ” exclaimed the princess. 

“Yes, I must hurry, for I am expected,” 
said Mme. de Burne, adding, “I should much 
prefer, however, to remain with you.” 

They again kissed each other, and Mme. 
de Burne entered a hired fiacre. 

The horse was lame, dragging the vehicle 
along painfully, and this lameness, this weari- 
ness of the animal, the young woman felt also 
within her. She found the road long and 
dreary, then she tried to console herself with 
the thought that she was to see Andre, but 
the dreariness of the journey soon again 
overcame her. 


212 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


She found him shivering behind the gate. 
The hail was still blowing through the trees, 
as they walked toward the cottage with their 
feet sinking into the mud at every step. 

The garden was sad, desolate and dreary, 
and Andre was pale and miserable. 

“Mercy ! how cold it is,” she exclaimed, as 
they entered. 

A blazing fire was burning in the grate, but, 
as it had only been started at noon, it had not 
yet dried the damp, cold walls. 

“ I think I shall keep on my furs,” she said, 
shudderingly. 

She opened them slightly, however, ap- 
pearing like an emigrating bird, which always 
flies away to warmer climates, in her feathery 
dress. 

“ I am to have a charming dinner this even- 
ing,” she resumed. 

“Who is to be there?” he asked, seating 
himself by her side. 

“Why — you, of course; then Predole, 
whom I have so long wanted to know.” 

“Ah! you will have Predole,” he inter- 
posed. 

“Yes, Lamarthe is to bring him.” 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


213 


“ But this Predole is not a man that you 
will like,” Mariolle said. “Sculptors, in 
general, are not made to please pretty women, 
and Predole, in particular, much less even than 
others.” 

“ Oh ! my dear friend, that is impossible, I 
admire him so much ! ” she exclaimed. 

For the past two months, that is, since his 
exposition in the Galerie Varin, the sculptor 
Predole had conquered Paris. He had been 
highly appreciated before this, and it had 
often been said that he made delicious little 
statues. But when artists and connoisseurs 
had been called upon to judge his entire 
works, in the gallery of the Rue Varin, there 
was an explosion of enthusiasm. 

It seemed like the revelation of a hitherto 
unknown charm ; a gift so original in portray- 
ing elegance and grace that it seemed like 
assisting at the birth of a new charm of form. 
He had adopted for a spefcialty those very 
lightly draped statuettes, revealing the hidden 
and delicate curves with unequaled per- 
fection. 

His danseuses especially, of which he had 
made numerous studies, showed, in their 


214 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


gestures and in their poses, by the harmony 
of attitudes and of movements, all that the 
feminine form harbors of suppleness and 
rare beauty. 

Mme. de Burne had made incessant efforts 
to attract him to her house, but the artist was 
very unsociable, even somewhat of a bear, it 
was said, and, until now, her efforts had been in 
vain. Through the intervention of Lamarthe, 
however, who had proclaimed his merits 
everywhere, she had at last succeeded in cap- 
turing the sculptor. 

“Who else will you have?” suddenly 
asked Mariolle. 

“ The Princess de Malten,” she replied. 

“ And who else ? ” said he, displeased, for 
he did not like the princess. 

“ Massival, Bernhaus and George de Mal- 
try, that is all,” she replied, then added, “You 
know Predole, do you not ? ” 

“Yes, slightly.” 

“ What do you think of him ? ” she asked. 

“ I think him charming,” he answered. 
“ He is the man the most in love with his art 
that I have ever met, and the most interest- 
ing when he speaks of it.” 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


215 


“ How delightful ! ” she exclaimed. 

He had taken her hand from under her 
furs, and, as he kissed it, she suddenly re- 
membered that she had forgotten to com- 
plain of illness, so she murmured ; 

“ How cold it is ; I am chilled to the 
bone.” 

He arose and looked at -the thermometer, 
which, in fact was very low. He reseated 
himself at her side, and she repeated : 

“ Heavens ! how cold it is.” 

For the past three weeks he had noticed 
that at each of their meetings she found some 
pretext to repulse his affections. He knew 
that she must be weary of this hypocrisy that 
she could no longer continue. And he was 
himself so exasperated by his helplessness, so 
devoured by a vain desire and his madness 
for this woman that he often said, in his hope- 
less solitude ; “ I prefer a rupture than to live 
on thus. ” 

“I must go,” she said, rising, “or I will 
take cold,” then added, “ Had I not been so 
anxious to see you, I would not have ventured 
out.” 

As he did not speak, being too full of 


2I6 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


anguish, she continued, “ After the warm 
weather we have had for the last two weeks, 
the damp days are dangerous.” 

She was looking out into the garden, where 
the trees were almost green under their 
covering of half melted snow, and he was 
looking at her, thinking : 

“And this is her love for me,” then a sort 
of hatred and rage entered his heart. “She 
is cold because she is with me,” he w'ent on 
thinking. “If it were for one of those stupid 
caprices that agitate the useless existence of 
these futile creatures, she would brave any- 
thing, even risk her life. Had she not often 
been out in her open carriage on the coldest 
days, only to show her toilets ? Ah ! they are 
all the same.” 

He was looking at her, and understood 
that this t6te-a-tete was tiresome to her, and 
that she was impatient to go. 

Could it be true that there ever had existed, 
and still existed, affectionate women who 
were thrilled by emotion, who suffered, wept, 
loved, with lips and eyes that speak, with a 
heart that beats, with a hand that caresses, 
women who brave everything because they 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


217 


love, and who will go, day or night, panting 
and intrepid, though watched and threatened, 
toward the one whose arms are awaiting to 
enfold them ? 

Oh ! what a terrible love was this that en- 
chained him, a love without issue, without 
end, without joy and without triumph; that 
only enervated, exasperated and devoured 
him with anxiety, a love without sweetness 
and without delight, causing only regrets 
and sufferings, and never revealing the rapt- 
ure of shared caresses, only through the 
intolerable regret of kisses impossible to 
awaken on cold lips, sterile and dry as dead 
trees. 

“Your dress is very pretty,” he said, not 
wishing to speak of his torture. 

“ Reserve your compliments until you see 
what I shall wear this evening,” she laughed, 
and then coughing slightly, added: “ Indeed; 
I must go, my friend, for I am taking cold. 
The sun will return soon, and I shall return 
with it.” 

He did not insist; he was discouraged. 
Knowing that no effort could now overcome 
the inertia of this being without impulse. 


2i8 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


that it was all over, it was useless to hope 
any longer, to await tender words from those 
cold lips, or a look of love from those 
calm eyes. A determined resolution to 
escape from this torturing tyranny suddenly 
took possession of him. She had nailed him 
to a cross, and she looked on his agony with- 
out understanding his suffering, delighted, 
even, that she had caused it. But he would 
tear himself away, even if he left behind him 
shreds of his flesh and of his torn heart. He 
would escape like a wild beast pursued by 
hunters; he could hide in solitude, where he 
might, perhaps, heal his mutilated heart. 

“Adieu, then,” said he, sadly. 

“ I shall see you this evening, my friend,” 
she said, struck by the sadness of his tone. 

“ This evening, ” he repeated. “ Adieu. ” 

She was gone. He returned alone, and 
stood by the fireplace. 

Alone ! How cold it was, in fact ! And 
what sadness now overcame him. It was all 
over. Ah ! what a horrible thought ! All 
was over, hopes, waitings, his dreams of her, 
with that flame in his heart which brightens 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


219 


our gloomy life, by moments, bonfires like 
started on an obscure night. 

Adieu to those nights of solitary emotion, 
spent in walking up and down his chamber, 
thinking of her; and those awakenings, when, 
on opening his eyes, he would say: “ I shall 
see her, by-and-by, in our little cottage. ” 

How he loved her ! How he loved her ! 
How long and painful the cure would be ! 
She had gone because it was cold! He still 
saw her standing there, looking at him and 
bewitching him — bewitching him that she 
might the better wound his heart. Ah ! in- 
deed, she had now broken it, with a single 
and vital blow. He felt the wound — it was 
already an old wound — reopened, and then 
healed by her kindness ; but she had made 
this last wound incurable, stabbing him as if 
with a dagger of her evident indifference. 

His grief was choking him, and he covered 
his face with his hands, as if to hide his own 
weakness from himself, and he wept. She 
had gone because it was cold ! He Avould 
have walked barefooted in the snow to meet 
her ; he would have thrown himself from the 
roof only to fall at her feet. 


2 20 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


An old legend came back to his mind, that 
of the “ hill of the two lovers,” seen on the 
way to Rouen : A young girl, obeying the 
cruel caprice of her father, who had forbidden 
her to wed her lover. unless she succeeded in 
carrying him to the summit of a rugged 
mountain. She had carried him there by 
crawling on her hands and knees, and had died 
on reaching the summit. Love was, then, 
only a legend — made to sing in verses, or to 
relate in deceiving romances. 

Had not his mistress told him, in one of 
their first meetings, something he had never 
forgotten. “ The men of the present,” she 
had said, “ do not love the women of to-day 
enough to harm them. Believe me, I know 
the one and the other,” She had been mis- 
taken in him, but not in herself, for she had 
added : “ In any case I warn you that I am 
truly incapable of loving any one, whoever he 
may be.” 

Whoever he may be ? It was certainly 
not himself, he was sure of that now^ but 
another. 

She could never love him ! And why ? 

Then the sensation of having missed every- 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


221 


thing in life, a sensation he had long felt, 
overcame him. He had done nothing, suc- 
ceeded in nothing, obtained nothing, con- 
quered nothing. The arts had tempted him, 
but he had never had the necessary courage 
or perseverance to triumph in them. No 
success had ever rejoiced him, no taste for a 
beautiful thing had ever exalted or ennobled 
him. His only energetic effort to conquer 
the heart of a woman had just failed like all 
the rest. He was, after all, but a failure. 

He still wept, the bitterness of his tears 
augmenting his misery. 

When he at last raised his head, it was 
night ; he had barely time to return home and 
dress to dine with her. 





/ 



■ / 


CHAPTER VII. 


Andre Mariollewas the first arrival in Mme. 
de Burne’s drawing-room. He contemplated 
the walls around him ; those hangings, knick- 
knacks and furniture he had so cherished 
because they were hers ; all those familiar 
objects, in the midst of which he had known 
her, where he had learned to love her, where 
he had discovered and felt that passion grow- 
ing within him day by day until the hour of 
his useless victory. With what emotion he 
had often awaited her in these coquettish sur- 
roundings ; a delicate frame to an exquisite 
being. How well he knew the tender per- 
fume that filled the atmosphere of this room; 
a sweet odor of fleur-de-lis, refined and 
simple. There he had shuddered in expec- 
tation, trembled with hopes, experienced all 
emotions, and, later, had felt all the anguishes 
of the heart. He would have wished that 
no one should come ; to remain there alone 
through the night, dreaming of his love, as 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


223 


we watch by the dead. Then he would have 
gone forth at sunrise, perhaps never to 
return. 

The door opened, and she entered, with 
her hand extending toward him, and it was 
by a great effort that he controlled his feel- 
ings. It was not a woman, but an exquisite 
living bouquet. 

A belt of pinks encircled her waist, and 
descended in a cascade to her feet. Around 
her bare arms and shoulders was a wreath of 
myosotis and lilies of the valley, while three 
fairy-like orchids seemed to bloom from her 
throat, and caressed the white skin with their 
rosy hue. In her blonde hair shone enameled 
violets, sprinkled with miniature diamonds. 
Other brilliants, trembling on golden pins, 
sparkled like drops of water in the perfumed 
decorations of her bodice. 

“ I will have a headache,” she said, smiling ; 
“but that cannot be helped. It is so be- 
coming.” 

She looked like a garden in the springtime ; 
she was fresher than her wreaths. Andre 
looked at her dazzled, and thinking that it 
would be as brutal and barbarous to take her 


224 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


in his arms at this moment, as to crush bloom- 
ing flowers under his feet. 

The body of a woman had become only a 
pretext for adornment, an object for decora- 
tion ; it was no longer an object for love. 
She resembled flowers, birds, and a thousand 
other things as much as she resembled a 
woman. Women of past generations em- 
ployed coquettish arts to aid their beauty, but 
they tried first of all to please by the direct 
charm of their body, by the natural power of 
their graces, by the irresistible attraction that 
the feminine form exercises on the hearts of 
men. To-day coquetry was everything, arti- 
fice had become the great means, and also the 
aim, for they even used it in preference, to 
irritate the eyes of their rivals, to lash their 
jealousy, and for the conquest of men. To 
what end was this toilet destined ? the 
admiration of her lover or the humiliation of 
the Princess de Malten ? 

At this moment the princess was an- 
nounced. Mme. de Burne rushed toward 
her, carefully protecting the orchids, how- 
ever, and kissed her with a great show of 


NOTRE CaSUR. 


225 

affection. It was a pretty kiss, given and 
returned heartily by both. 

Mariolle shuddered with anguish. She had 
never rushed to him with such an impetuosity, 
never kissed him so heartily, and by a sudden 
revulsion of thought, he said to himself, furi- 
ously, “These women are not made for us.” 

Massival was now announced ; then M. de 
Pradon, Comte de Bernhaus, and George de 
Maltry, resplendent in a coat of the latest 
English cut, soon followed. 

They now awaited only Lamarthe and 
Predole, and in the meantime the sculptor was 
praised by everybody. 

“ He had resuscitated the grace ; refound 
the tradition of the renaissance, with some- 
thing more, modern sincerity.” According 
to George de Maltry, “he was the exquisite 
delineator of human suppleness.” These were 
the phrases that had been repeated from 
mouth to mouth, from salon to salon, for the 
past two months. 

He appeared at last, and was a surprise. 
He was a big man, of uncertain age, with the 
shoulders of a peasant, a strong head, with 
accentuated features, covered with gray hair 

Notre Coeur 15 


226 


NOTRE CCEVR. 


and beard, a powerful nose, thick lips and an 
air of timidity and embarrassment. He car- 
ried his arms somewhat far from his body, with 
a sort of awkwardness, which, no doubt, was 
attributable to his enormous hands. They 
were large, thick, with muscular and hairy fin- 
gers, and they seemed ungainly, slow, embar- 
rassed by being there, and impossible to hide. 

But the face was brightened by a pair of 
limpid and piercing gray eyes, of extraordi- 
nary vivacity. They alone seemed alive in this 
heavy man; they looked, scrutinized, searched, 
taking in everything in their sharp and rapid 
glances. And one felt that a great and lively 
intelligence animated this curious gaze. 

Madame de Burne, somewhat disappointed, 
politely indicated a seat in which the artist 
sunk heavily- Then he remained there mo- 
tionless, confused, seeming very ill at ease in 
these surroundings. 

Lamarthe, who was never at a loss, came 
to the rescue and broke the ice. 

“ My dear Predole,” said he, “ I will show 
you where you are; now that you have seen 
our divine hostess, you must see her sur- 
roundings.” 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


227 


He pointed out an authentic bust of Houdon, 
on the chimney, then leading him in front of 
the secretary of Boules, showed him some- 
thing by Clodion, two women dancing, with 
their arms entwining each other; and finally 
brought him to a etagere on which stood 
four Tanagra statuettes, chosen from among 
the most perfect. 

Predole’s face lighted up at once, as if he 
had refound his children in the desert. He 
walked straight to the antique little figures, 
and, as he seized two of them in those formi- 
dable hands, Mme. de Burne trembled for their 
safety. But his touch on them seemed a 
caress, for he handled them with a suppleness 
and a surprising delicacy, turning them in his 
thick fingers, now become as deft as those of 
a juggler. To see him contemplating and 
caressing them, one felt that, in the soul and 
hands of this big man, there was a unique, 
ideal and delicate tenderness for all these 
exquisite little things. 

“ Do you think them pretty ? ” asked La- 
marthe. 

Then the sculptor praised as if congratu- 
lating them, and he spoke of them as the most 


228 


NOTRE CCBUR. 


remarkable he had seen, using few words, in a 
somewhat low but assuring voice, showing 
that he well knew the value of the terms, and 
expressing his thoughts clearly. 

Then, still under the guidance of the novel- 
ist, he inspected the other rare knickknacks 
that Mme. de Burne had collected, guided by 
the advice of her friends. He greeted them 
with exclamations of joy and astonishment in 
discovering them in such a place, turning 
them delicately in his hands as if to bring 
himself in loving contact with them. A 
bronze statuette, hidden in an obscure corner, 
and which was as heavy as lead, next caught 
his attention; hfe took it up in one hand, 
brought it near one of the lamps, admired it 
for a long time, then returned it to its place 
without any visible effort. 

“Is not that fellow built to struggle against 
marble and stone ? ” laughed Lamarthe. 

By the time dinner was announced, they 
were all admiring him. 

Mme. de E»urne took the arm of the sculp- 
tor, and, when they had reached the dining- 
room, she made him seat himself at her right. 

“Your art, monsieur, has also another 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


229 


merit, has it not, that of being the most 
ancient ? ” asked Mme. de Burne, as courte- 
ously as if interrogating the heir of a great 
family on the exact origin of his name. 

“Indeed, madame,” he answered, quietly, 
“the Biblical shepherds played the flute; 
therefore music appears more ancient, al- 
though, to our understanding, true music 
does not date so far back. But true sculpture 
dates from a very long distance.” 

“ You love music ?” she rejoined. 

“I love all the arts,” he answered, gravely. 

“ Is the inventor of yours known ? ” she 
again asked. 

He reflected; then, in softened accents, as if 
relating a tender story, he said : 

“According to the Hellenic tradition, it was 
the Athenian Dedale, but the prettiest legend 
is that which attributes this discovery to a 
potter of Sicyone, named Dibutades. His 
daughter. Kora, having sketched the shadow 
of her lover’s profile, her father filled this 
silhouette with clay, and modeled it. My art 
was then born.” 

“ Charming,” murmured Lamarthe ; then, 
after a short silence, added : 


230 


NOTRE COE UR. 


“Ah ! if you only would, Predole !” Then, 
addressing Mme. de Burne : 

“You can never imagine, madame, how in- 
teresting this man can be when he speaks of 
what he loves, how well he can express it, 
demonstrate it, and make us worship it.” 

But the sculptor did not seem disposed to 
pose or discourse. He had already tucked 
a corner of his napkin under his collar, and 
he was eating away with that meditative look, 
that sgrt of respect that peasants have for 
their soup. 

When he had finished he drank a glass of 
wine, and then looked around, seeming more 
at his ease, and acclimatized. 

From time to time he tried to turn, that he 
might see a modern group placed on the 
chimney behind him, and which he saw re- 
flected from a mirror. He did not know it, 
and was trying to guess its author ; but, 
finally, he could stand it no longer, and sud- 
denly exclaimed: 

“It is by Falguieres, is it not?” 

“ Yes ; it is by Falguieres,” laughed Mme. 
de Burne. “ How could you recognize it in 
a mirror ? ” 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


231 


“ Ah ! madame,” he said, smiling in his 
turn, “ I always recognize at a glance the 
sculptures of people who do any painting, and 
the paintings of people who also do some sculp- 
ture. It does not at all resemble the work of 
a man who practices one art exclusively.” 

Lamarthe, who wished to draw him out, 
asked for explanations, and the sculptor con- 
tinued. 

He defined and characterized the paintings 
of the sculptors, and the sculptures of the 
painters, in a manner so clear, original and 
new, with the words so slow and precise, that 
they listened to him with their eyes as well 
as with their ears. He went back to the early 
history of art for his demonstrations; and, 
giving examples from epoch to epoch, he 
ascended to the first Italian masters, painters 
and sculptors at the same time — Nicolas 
and Jean de Pise, Donatello and Lorenzo 
Ghiberti. He indicated the curious opinions 
of Diderot on the same subject ; and to con- 
clude, he cited the doors of the baptismal font 
of Saint Jean de Florence, by Ghiberti, bas- 
reliefs so life-like and dramatic that they re- 
sembled painted canvas, 


232 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


With his heavy hands agitated before him, 
as if they were filled with modeling material, 
and which had now become so light and 
supple in their movements as to charm the 
eye, he reconstructed the works he related 
with so much conviction, that they followed 
his fingers with curiosity, while he evoked all 
the images expressed by his lips, above the 
glasses and plates. 

Then, being offered something of which he 
was very fond, he became silent, and returned 
to his dinner. 

He spoke very little during the rest of the 
dinner, scarcely paying any attention to the 
conversation, which had now become general, 
and jumped from the echo of a theater to a 
political rumor, from a ball or a marriage to 
an article in the Revue des Deux Monies. 
He ate and drank well without being affected 
by the wine, his thoughts being clear, difficult 
to disturb, and scarcely excitable. 

When they had returned to the drawing- 
room, Lamarthe, who had not obtained all he 
expected from the sculptor, called his atten- 
tion to a glass case, under which was an 
object of inestimable value: a silver ink-stand. 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


233 


a quoted, classed and historical piece, chiseled 
by Benvenuto Cellini. 

A sort of rapture took possession of the 
sculptor. He contemplated it as if looking 
on the face of a mistress, and, seized with 
admiration, he expressed ideas as graceful 
and delicate on this work of Cellini, as the art 
of this divine chiseler itself. Then, feeling 
that they were listening to him, he seated 
himself in an arm-chair and abandoned him- 
self entirely to his admiration, holding and 
regarding incessantly the jewel he had just 
discovered. He related his impressions of 
all the marvels of art known to him, and ren- 
dered visible the strange intoxication that the 
grace of forms caused, his soul, entering 
through his eyes. 

During ten years he had wandered over 
the world looking at nothing but marble, 
stone, bronze and wood, sculptured by loving 
hands ; or at gold, silver, ivory and copper, 
vague materials transformed into works of 
art under the fairy fingers of chiselers. 

And he, himself, was achieving works of art 
while talking ; with surprising reliefs, and 


234 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


delicious models obtained by the accuracy of 
his words. 

The men were all surrounding him, listen- 
ing with evident interest, while the two 
women, seated near the fire, seemed bored, and 
were conversing in a low voice, disconcerted 
to see themselves neglected to listen to simple 
contours of objects. 

When Predole had ended, Lamarthe, who 
was charmed, pressed his hand, and, in a voice 
softened by the emotion of a love in common, 
said : 

“Really, my dear friend, I feel like embra- 
cing you; you are the only artist, the only pas- 
sionate and the only great man of to-day, the 
only man who truly loves what he does, who 
finds happiness in it, and who is never wearied 
nor disgusted with it. You handle art in its 
purest, most simple, its highest and most 
inaccessible form. You give birth to the 
beautiful by the curve of a line, and you care 
not for other things. I drink this glass of 
wine to your health." 

Then the conversation became general but 
languishing, choked by the ideas that had 


NOTRE CCEUR. 235 

floated through the atmosphere of this pretty 
salon filled with precious objects. 

Predole excused himself early, saying he 
went to work every morning at sunrise. 

“ Well, how do you like him ? ” asked La- 
marthe, full of enthusiasm, when he had gone. 

“He is interesting enough, but tiresome,” 
answered Mme. de Burne, discontentedly. 

The novelist smiled, and thought to him- 
self: “ Indeed, it is true he did not admire 
your toilet, and you are the only knickknack 
that he scarcely looked at.” But aloud he 
uttered a few compliments, and then went and 
took a seat beside the Princess de Malten. 

The Count de Bernhaus approached the 
mistress of the house, and sank down on a 
small ottoman at her feet. Mariolle, Massi- 
val, Maltry and M. de Pradon were still 
speaking of the sculptor, who had made a 
deep impression on them. M. de Maltry 
compared him to the old masters, whose 
whole lives had been embellished and bright- 
ened by the exclusive and devouring love of 
the manifestations of “beauty,” and he phi- 
losophized on this with subtle, just, and tire- 
some phrases. 


236 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


Massival, soon wearied of listening to the 
praises of an art which was not his own, ap- 
proached Madame de Malten and Lamarthe, 
but the latter soon left them to rejoin the 
other men. 

“ Shall we go,” he said to Mariolle ? 

“Yes; I am quite ready,” was his an- 
swer. 

The novelist loved to talk on the street 
when walking with any one at night. His 
abr-upt, sarcastic and cutting tones seemed to 
catch and climb up the walls of the houses. 
He felt himself eloquent and clairvoyant, 
intelligent and witty, in these nocturnal tete- 
a-tetes, when he soliloquized rather than con- 
versed. In this he had obtained successes 
that sufficed him, and he prepared himself a 
good night’s sleep by this slight fatigue of 
lungs and of limbs. 

Mariolle could bear no more. All his 
misery, all his unhappiness, all his grief, all 
irremediable deceptions, boiled in his heart 
since he had entered this house. 

He could bear it no longer, and he would 
go never to return. 

When he took his leave of Mme. de Burne, 


NOTRE C(EUR. 237 

she said good night with a very absent- 
minded air. 

The two men were at last alone in the 
street. The wind had turned, and it was now 
warm as a spring night. The sky was filled 
with stars, and vibrated as if in that immense 
space a breath of' summer had enlivened the 
sparkling of the stars. 

“ What a fortunate man that Predole is,” 
said Lamarthe, suddenly. “ He loves but one 
thing — that is his art. He thinks of nothing 
else, lives for nothing else, and it fills, con- 
soles, enlivens and makes the happiness of 
his existence. He is truly a great artist of 
the old race. Ah ! he troubles himself but 
little with women ; those women adorned and 
disguised. Did you see what little notice he 
took of those two pretty women, who were in- 
deed very charming ? But he must have pure 
plastics, he will have nothing artificial, so our 
divine hostess pronounced him unbearable 
and stupid. For her a bust of Houdon, a 
statuette of Tanagre, or an inkstand of Ben- 
venuto are only so many little ornaments 
necessary to the natural and rich frame of a 
masterpiece which is herself ; herself and her 


238 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


dress, for her dress is part of herself ; it is the 
new note she gives each day to her beauty. 
Ah ! how futile and selfish a woman it.” 

He stopped and struck the sidewalk with 
his cane with such a sudden stroke that it 
was echoed through the street, then he con- 
tinued: 

“They know, understand, and prize all 
that gives them value, the toilet and the jewel, 
whose style changes every ten years; but 
they ignore that which demands a rare and 
constant selection, that which exacts a 
great and delicate artistic penetration, and a 
purely disinterested and esthetic exercise of 
their senses. Their senses are, moreover, 
very rudimentary, little perfected, inaccessible 
to all that does not directly touch feminine 
egotism, which absorbs everything in them; 
their tact is that of traps and war. They are 
even almost powerless to taste the material 
delights of inferior order, which demand a 
physical education and the cultivated atten- 
tion of one organ, like gluttony. When, 
as a few exceptions sometimes do, they 
reach that point that they can respect a 
good cuisine, they still remain incapable of 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


239 


understanding those old wines that speak 
only to the palate of men; for wine speaks.” 

He struck the pavement again with his 
cane, to emphasize his words, and give point 
to his phrase. 

“ However, we must not expect too much 
of them, ” he continued. “But this absence 
of taste and comprehension, which obscures 
their intellectual view in elevated things, often 
blinds them even more in regard to us. For- 
merly, a man was judged by his valor and 
coura,ge, but intelligence, qualities and ex- 
ceptional merits are now useless to them. 
Women of to-day are but players, the itiner- 
ant players of love, repeating, through habit, 
a comedy they play through tradition, and 
which they do not believe. ” 

They walked on a few minutes in silence, 
side by side. Mariolle had listened to him 
attentively, repeating his phrases mentally, 
and approving them in his misery. He knew, 
moreover, that a sort of Italian adventurer. 
Prince Epilati, a gentleman of arms, whose 
elegance and vigor formed the topic of con- 
versation just now, had lately monopolized 


240 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


the attention and coquetry of the little Baro- 
ness de Fremines. 

“It is our own fault,” said Mariolle. “We 
choose badly; there are other women than 
those ! ” 

“The only ones capable of love,” resumed 
the novelist, “are the shop-girls or the senti- 
mental little bourgeoises, who are poor and 
badly married. They are overflowing with 
sentiment, but of sentiment so vulgar that to 
exchange it with ours would be to bestow 
alms. Therefore, I say, that, in our young, 
wealthy society, where women are not in need 
of anything, and whose only desires are to 
be amused without running any risk, where 
men have their determined pleasure like their 
work — I repeat, that the old, charming and 
powerful natural attractions that drew the 
different sexes toward each other, have dis- 
appeared.” 

“That is true,” murmured Mariolle. 

His desirb to fly had increased; to fly far 
away from those dolls, who, through sheer 
idleness, mimicked the beautiful and tender 
passion of other days, and who tasted none 
of its lost flavor. 



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NOTRE CCEUR. 24 1 

“ Good night,” said he, as he reached his 
door. ” I shall go to bed.” 

As soon as he reached his room, he wrote 
the following: 

"Adieu, madame. Do you remember my 
first letter ? I was saying adieu then ; but I 
did not go, and I was wrong. But when you 
receive this, I shall have left Paris. Need I 
explain why? Men like myself should never 
meet women like you. If I were an artist, 
and could express my emotions in a way that 
might relieve me, you might have thought I 
had some merit ; I am only a poor fellow 
whose love has become an atrocious and in- 
tolerable distress. When I met you I did 
not believe myself capable of feeling and suf- 
fering thus. Another in your place might 
have poured a divine delirium into my heart 
and made it live. But you have only tor- 
tured it. It was not your fault, I know, and 
I do not reproach you. I have not even the 
right to write these lines, but you will forgive 
me. You do not feel as I feel, you cannot 
even understand what passes within me when 
I am with you, when you are speaking to me, 
and I am gazing on you. Yes, you consent, 

Notre Coeur i6 > 


242 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


you accept me, and you offer me a peaceful 
and reasonable happiness, for which I should 
thank you on my bended knees. But I will 
have none of it. Ah ! what a horrible and 
torturing love is that which begs incessantly 
for a tender word or a loving caress, but 
never receives it ! My heart is as empty as 
the stomach of that beggar who ran so long 
behind you with extended hand. You threw 
him some beautiful things, but no bread. It 
is bread, it is love, that I must have. I go 
miserable and poor, poor in your love, a few 
crumbs of which would have saved me. I 
have nothing left in the world but a cruel 
thought which clings to me and that must be 
killed. That is what I shall try to do. 

“Adieu, madame, I thank you and crave 
your pardon. I still love you with all my 
soul. Adieu, madame. 

“Andre Mariolle.” 



PART III. 


CHAPTER 1. 

The morning was beautiful and bright as 
Mariolle entered the carriage awaiting him 
at the door. His valet had, during the night, 
prepared and packed all things necessary for 
a long absence. The only address he left 
was, “ Fontainebleau poste restante.” He 
took no one with him, that nothing should 
remind him of Paris, and that he should hear 
no familiar voice in his solitude. 

“To the Gare de Lyon ! ” he cried out to 
his coachman, who immediately whipped up 
his horses, and they were on the way. His 
other departure from Paris for Mont-Saint- 
Michel, the previous summer, came back to 
his thoughts. It was not yet a year ago, and 
he was now flying from her. 


244 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


The carriage was soon in the Avenue des 
Champs-Elysees, now bathed in the spring 
sunlight. The green leaves, scarcely injured 
by the last two days of hail and frost, seemed 
to expand in this bright morning. An odor 
of fresh verdure, and of sap evaporated by 
the sprouting of future branches, filled the 
air. It was one of those mornings when we 
feel that the public gardens, and the chestnut 
trees along the avenues, will bloom in one 
day through Paris like chandeliers that are 
suddenly lighted. The earth was coming to 
life for the summer, and even the street itself 
was devoured by roots. 

"At last, I shall taste a calm life,” he was 
saying to himself. " I shall watch the birth of 
spring in the still, deserted forest.” 

The journey appeared long to him. He 
was as much fatigued, after those few hours of 
weeping and sleeplessness, as if he had 
watched at the bedside of a dying friend for 
weeks. When he arrived at Fontainebleau, 
he proceeded at once to a notary’s to ascer- 
tain if he could rent a cottage near the edge 
of the forest. He was directed to several, 
and the one that attracted him most had just 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


245 


been vacated by a young couple who had 
spent nearly all the winter in the village of 
Montigny-sur- Loing. 

“Are you alone, monsieur?” asked the 
notary, who suspected a romance, and, 
though a grave man, was smiling to himself. 

“Yes, I am quite alone.” 

“Without even servants?” said the notary, 
surprised. 

“Without even servants,” repeated Mari- 
olle. “I left mine in Paris. I will engage 
some here. I come here to work in absolute 
' retirement.” 

“ Oh ! you will have quiet enough at this 
season.” 

A few minutes later an open landau was 
conveying Mariolle and his baggage toward 
Montigny. 

The forest was awakening. At the feet of 
the tall trees, whose tops were covered with 
shady leaves, the shrubbery was thick and 
bushy. The early birch, with its silvery 
branches, seemed already dressed for the 
summer, while the immense oaks showed 
only green tufts at the ends of their branches. 
The beech trees, opening their pointed sprouts. 


246 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


were shedding the last of the dead leaves of 
the preceding year. 

Along the road the grass, which was not 
yet hidden by the impenetrable shades of the 
forest, was thick, bright, and glistened with 
new life ; and the odor of the new growth, 
which Mariolle had already perceived in the 
Avenue des Champs Elysees, now enveloped 
him, drowning him in an immense bath of 
vegetable life, now germing under a spring 
sun. He inhaled long breaths of it, like a 
convict just liberated from prison, and, with the 
sensation of a man who has but broken his 
chains, he extended his two arms indolently 
over each side of the laudau, allowing his 
hands to almost touch the wheels. 

It was so good to breathe this free, pure 
air. But how much he would have to drink, 
and drink again for a long time, of this air, 
before he would become impregnated with it 
and his sufferings lessened ; before he would 
at last feel that cool breath gliding through 
his lungs to heal this bleeding wound in his 
heart. 

He traversed Marlotte, where the coach- 
man pointed out the Hotel Corot, which had 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


247 


just been opened, and was greatly praised for 
its originality. They then followed a road 
with a forest on their left, and a great plain 
with clumps of trees here and there, on their 
right, skirted by hillocks on the horizon. Then 
they entered the long street of the village, a 
street, white and blinding, between two inter- 
minable lines of small houses covered with 
tiles, and where he caught glimpses of enor- 
mous lilacs blossoming above the garden 
walls. 

This street followed a narrow valley lead- 
ing to a small stream, the sight of which en- 
raptured Mariolle. It was a narrow, rapid 
and agitated stream that washed the founda- 
tions of the houses on one side, while it bathed 
a vast prairie on the other. 

Mariolle immediately found the cottage he 
was searching, and was quite enchanted with 
it. It was an old house that had been re- 
stored by an artist, who, after a residence of 
five years there, had wearied of it and was 
now letting it. It was very near the shore, 
separated from it by a pretty garden ter- 
minating in a terrace of linden trees. The 
Loing, just liberated from a dam by a fall of 


248 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


one or two feet, flowed rapidly along this 
terrace. 

“ I shall cure myself here,” thought Ma- 
riolle. 

As all the details had been arranged with 
the notary in case the cottage should be found 
suitable, Mariolle notified him of his accept- 
ance through the coachman, who returned at 
once. He then bestirred himself to find 
servants, and he was soon installed in his 
new home. 

The ground floor consisted of a panor, 
dining-room, kitchen, and two other small 
rooms ; the floor above contained a large bed- 
room, and a sort of boudoir, which the artist- 
proprietor had occupied as a studio. All this 
was furnished with that care and forethought 
we exhibit when pleased by the country or 
the house. It was now a little disordered, 
and had that air of widowhood and abandon- 
ment seen in houses deserted by the owner. 

One felt, however, that this little house 
had been but recently occupied. A soft odor 
of vervain still pervaded it. “What, the odor 
of that simple perfume, the vervain,” thought 
Mariolle. “ Happy man ; for the woman that 


NOTRE CCENR. 


249 


occupied this house before me was, evidently, 
not complicated.” 

The day soon passed in these numerous 
occupations. Toward evening he seated him- 
self near an open window, inhaling the soft 
and damp freshness of the dewy verdure, and 
looking at the long shadows cast by the set- 
ting sun on the green prairie. 

The voices of the servants, chatting while 
preparing his dinner, came to him softly from 
below, while from without came the sounds 
of the lowing of the cattle, the barking of 
dogs, and the voices of the peasants, driving 
home their cattle and talking to each other 
from both sides of the river. All this exer- 
cised a calming and restful influence over him. 

He asked himself, for the thousandth time 
since the morning: “What did she think 
when she received my letter ? What will she 
do ? ” Then he asked himself: “ What is she 
doing at this moment?” He looked at his 
watch — half-past six. “She was at home 
and receiving.” 

He could see the drawing-room where the 
young woman was seated chatting with the 


250 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


Princess de Malten, Mme. de Fremiiies, Mas- 
sival, and the Comte de Bernhaus. 

A sudden anger entered his soul. He 
would have wished to be over there. It was 
the hour when he usually arrived. And he 
felt an uneasiness, not a regret, for his will 
was firm, but a species of physical suffering, 
similar to a patient who has been refused his 
customary dose of morphine. 

He no longer saw the prairies, nor the sun 
disappearing behind the hillock in the hori- 
zon. He saw her only, in the midst of her 
friends, a prey to those worldly anxieties that 
had robbed him of her. 

“But I must forget her,” he said, aloud, 
as he arose and walked down to the terrace. 

The spray of the water, agitated by its 
rapid descent from the dam, arose into a cool 
mist from the river ; this cooling sensation 
chilled his already saddened heart, and he 
returned slowly to the house. 

Dinner was ready, but he ate little ; then, 
having nothing to do, and feeling overcome 
by that uneasiness that had taken possession 
of him a few hours before, he retired, closing 
his eyes to invite sleep and forgetfulness ; but 


NOTRE CCEUR. 25 1 

in vain. His thoughts saw and suffered, for 
they never left that woman. 

“Who would become her lover now?” 
Comte de Bernhaus, no doubt ! He was the 
lover suitable for this vain creature ; a man of 
elegance, and much sought by women. He 
pleased her, for to conquer him she had 
made use of all her arts, although the mis- 
tress of another. 

Under the sway of these devouring ideas, 
his soul became numbed; losing itself in 
somnambulistic conjurations, in which she 
appeared incessantly with this man. All 
through the night he saw them around him, 
braving and irritating him, then disappearing, 
as if to permit him to at last find sleep, only 
to reappear and reawaken him by an acute 
spasm of jealousy in his heart, as soon as 
forgetfulness had again enveloped him. 

At sunrise he jumped out of his bed, and 
went out into the clear morning air, and 
walked on into the forest. 

The sun glistened through the almost 
naked branches of the oaks on the green 
carpet at his feet; further on, he could 
see the shrubbery in which innumerable lit- 


252 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


tie yellow butterflies appeared like dancing 
flames. 

A hillock, almost a mountain, covered with 
pines and grayish rocks, appeared at the right 
of the path. He ascended it slowly, and when 
he had reached the summit, he seated himself 
on a large stone, for he was almost exhausted. 
His limbs trembled under him, and he was 
faint with weakness; his heart was beating 
violently, and his whole body seemed bruised 
by an inconceivable weariness. 

This exhaustion, he knew, did not come 
from fatigue; but it came from “ Her,” from 
that love that weighed him down like an in- 
tolerable burden; and he murmured: “What 
misery! why has she such power over me, I 
who have never taken of existence only what 
was necessary to taste it without suffering.” 

His attention, over-excited and sharpened 
by the fear of that disease, which would, per- 
haps, be difficult to overcome, turned to him- 
self and searched his soul to its innermost, 
trying to better understand, to unveil to his 
own eyes, the “why” of this inexplicable 
crisis. 

“I have never been an enthusiast,” he 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


253 


thought. “ I am not a passionate or an ex- 
alted person ; I have more judgment than 
Instinct ; more curiosity than appetite ; more 
fancy than perseverance. I love things of 
this life without even becoming much attached 
to them — with the sense of the expert, who 
tastes without becoming intoxicated, who is 
too wise to lose his head. I reason every- 
thing, and usually analyze my tastes too well 
to be blindly overcome. That is even my 
greatest defect, the unique cause of my 
weakness. And that is how that woman suc- 
ceeded in imposing on me, in spite of myself, 
in spite of my fear and my knowledge of her, 
and she possesses me as completely as if she 
had gathered, one by one, all the diverse 
aspirations within me. I have scattered them 
toward inanimate things, on nature, which 
charmed and moved me ; toward music, 
which is an ideal caress ; toward thought, 
which is the gluttony of the mind ; and toward 
all that is agreeable and beautiful in this 
world. 

“Then I met a creature who gathered all 
my hesitating and changing desires, and, turn- 
ing them toward herself, changed them into 


254 


NOTRE CCS UR. 


love. Elegant and pretty, she pleased my 
eyes ; witty, intelligent and crafty, she pleased 
my soul; and she pleased my heart through 
the mysterious delight of her contact and 
presence, by a secret and irresistible emana- 
tion of her person that conquered me like the 
benumbing influence of certain flowers. 

“She has replaced everything within me, 
for I have no more aspirations, no needs, no 
desires, no cares for anything. 

“ Formerly I would have trembled and 
vibrated in this awakening forest. To-day I 
do not see it, I do not feel it, I am not here; 
I am always near her, whom I wish to love 
no longer. 

‘ Then, I must kill my thoughts by fatigue, 
or I can never be cured.” 

He went down the rugged path, and con- 
tinued to walk with rapid strides. But his 
troubles crushed him as if carried on his 
shoulders. 

Suddenly he stopped; “ I am not walking,” 
he said; “ I am flying.” In fact, he was flying, 
pursued by the anguish of this broken love. 

Then he went on more slowly. The aspect 
of the forest was changing, becoming denser 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


255 


and more shady, for he was entering the 
warmest part of that admirable grove of beech 
trees. Not a single trace of winter remained; 
it was spring that seemed born in the night 
it was so fresh and young. 

An immense vault of leafy trees veiled the 
sky. It ascended indefinitely, dominating 
the young shrubbery at the feet of the 
gigantic trees, and covering it with a thick 
cloud, through which glistened a cataract of 
sunlight. This fiery shower glided through 
the expanded foliage, which seemed no longer 
a forest, but a dazzling vapor of verdure, 
illuminated with golden rays. 

Mariolle stopped, moved by an inexpress- 
ible surprise. Where was he — in a forest? 
Or had he fallen to the bottom of the sea — 
of a sea full of foliage and of light, an ocean 
gilded with green light ? 

He felt better, farther from his unhappiness, 
more hidden, calmer ; and he sank down on 
this carpet of dead leaves. Enjoying the 
cooling contact of the earth and the pure 
sweetness of the air, he was soon invaded by 
a desire, vague at first, then more precise, of 
sharing the charming solitude with some one. 


256 


NOTRE CCEVR. 


“Ah ! if she were only here with me,” he 
exclaimed. 

Suddenly a vision of Mont-Saint-Michel 
arose before him, remembering how different 
she had been over there from what she had 
been in Paris. During these few hours, spent 
on the shivering sands on the shore of the 
sea, she had loved him a little ; indeed, on the 
inundated road, in the cloister where she had 
murmured that one word, “ Andre,” she had 
seemed to say “I am yours;” and on the 
“ Fool’s walk,” where he had almost carried 
her through space, she had a sort of tender- 
ness for him then, which had never returned 
since her coquettish foot had touched the 
pavements of Paris. 

But here, with him, in this glistening bath 
of verdure, in this sea of foliage, would not 
that fugitive and tender emotion she had ex- 
perienced on the Norman coast have re-entered 
her heart ? 

He remained there stretched at full length, 
still bruised by his thoughts, his gaze lost in 
the sunlit billows of the foliage ; and little by 
little numbed by the great tranquillity of the 
forest, he fell asleep; when he awakened. 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


257 

he was surprised to find that it was two o’clock 
in the afternoon. 

He arose less sad, less ill, and resumed his 
walk. He soon found his way out of the 
forest, and entered a path which diverged into 
six avenues, stretching far away, and lost in 
the leafy distance in an atmosphere tinted 
with emerald. A post indicated the name of 
this place, and bore this inscription : “ The 
king’s bouquet.” It was really the capital of 
the royal county of beech trees. 

A carriage was passing, and Mariolle en-' 
gaged the driver to take him to Marlotte, 
from whence he proceeded to Montigny after 
eating a copious dinner at the tavern. 

He remembered having seen this tavern 
the previous day ; it was the “ Hotel Corot,” 
decorated on the model of the Chat Noir of 
Paris. 

As he entered the dining-room he saw a 
young woman, a servant no doubt, standing 
on the top of a ladder. She stood on the 
tips of both feet, then on one only, supporting 
herself with one hand on the wall, and putting 
away old plates on a high shelf, with the 
other hand, with movements full of grace and 

Notre Coeur 17 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


25S 

suppleness. As her back was turned to the 
door, she did not at first see Mariolle, who 
stopped to admire her. “ She is very grace- 
ful,” he said to himself ; “she reminds me of 
one of Predole’s figures, full of suppleness 
and grace.” 

He coughed, and she nearly fell in surprise, 
but,quickly recovering her equilibrium, jumped 
from the ladder with the lightness of a rope- 
dancer, and came quickly forward to serve the 
guest. 

“What will monsieur have?” she asked, 
smiling. 

“ Breakfast, mademoiselle,” he replied. 

“ It will be dinner, rather,” she said. “ It 
is now half-past three.” 

“ Let us call it dinner if you wish, I lost 
my way in the forest.” 

She was so graceful and pretty that his 
gaze followed her as she waited on him. Her 
skirt was turned up, revealing a pretty little 
foot; the sleeves of her dress were tucked up, 
exposing her shapely arms; and her corset 
molded her pretty, slim waist ; of which she 
was undoubtedly very proud. 

Her face was somewhat red from exposure 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


259 


to the sun, but of the freshness of an expand- 
ing flower, with bright brown eyes, a mouth 
full of pretty teeth, and an abundance of 
brown hair revealing the lively energy of her 
vigorous young body. 

She brought him radishes and butter, and 
then left him. He had asked for a bottle of 
champagne, and drank it to the last drop, then, 
after his coffee, this was followed by two 
glasses of kummel. And, as he had only 
eaten a little cold meat and bread before leav- 
ing home, he was numbed, relieved by a 
powerful dizziness which he took for forget- 
fulness. His ideas, sorrows, anguish, seemed 
drowned in this clear wine, and, little by little, 
it changed the torture of his heart into slug- 
gishness. 

He walked slowly back to Montigny, and 
reached home so fatigued by his day’s ramble 
that he fell into a sound sleep soon after 
retiring. 

But he was soon again awakened, tor- 
mented by the same nightmare. He could 
see her always near him, and de Bernhaus 
was still at her side. “ I am jealous, now ! ” 
he said to himself, at last, “and why?” 


26 o 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


But he soon understood why. Notwith- 
standing his fears and sufferings, as long as 
he was her lover, he felt that she was faithful ; 
faithful without impulse or much love, but 
with a loyal resolution. But now that he had 
broken the link, given her her freedom, and 
that all was over, would she remain without 
other liaison ? She would no doubt for some 
time — and then ? Did not this fidelity per- 
haps come from a vague presentiment, that, if 
she abandoned him through weariness of their 
love, she would have to replace him through 
weariness of solitude? Are not lovers some- 
times retained with resignation through the 
fear of their successors ? She was no prude 
bourgeoisie, but a worldly philosopher, who 
did not fear a secret attachment, but whose 
indifferent heart shuddered with repugnance 
at the thought of a succession of lovers. 

He had liberated her — and now? Now 
she would certainly take another ! and that 
other would be the Count de Bernhaus. He 
was sure of it. 

Why had he broken with her, when she 
was faithful, friendly and charming ? Why ? 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


261 


Because he was a sensual brute, who did not 
understand the finer sentiments of love. 

Was this really the cause? Yes — but 
there was something else ! It was the fear 
of suffering, of enduring for years the torture 
of the last few weeks. Weak, as he had 
always been, he recoiled from this pain, as 
he had all his life recoiled from great efforts. 

He was, then, incapable of following a thing 
to the end, of throwing himself into a passion, 
as he should have thrown himself into science 
or art, for it is, perhaps, impossible to love 
much without having suffered much. 

He tossed restlessly on his bed until dawn, 
when he arose, and walked down to the river 
bank. 

A fisherman was casting his net in the 
agitated waters below the dam, and Mariolle 
watched him as he withdrew it over the bow 
of the boat, and the wiggling fish glistened 
through the meshes like living silver. 

The damp freshness of the morning air, 
and the mists arising from the waterfall, brill- 
iant with innumerable rainbows, calmed his 
agitated nerves, and the swift current at his 
feet seemed to carry his misery away in its 


262 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


incessant and rapid flight. “Truly, I have 
done right, ” he said. “I should have been 
too unhappy had I remained. ” 

He dallied over his breakfast as long as 
possible, that the day might seem shorter, 
but the expectation of his mail disturbed him. 
He had telegraphed to Paris, and written 
to Fontainebleau, to have his letters for- 
warded, and still he had received nothing. 
The sensation of being forgotten began to 
oppress him. Certainly he could not expect 
to find anything agreeable or consoling in 
that little black box in the possession of the 
carrier, nothing more than commonplace com- 
munications or useless invitations. Then, 
why did he so strongly desire those unknown 
papers, as if they contained the salvation of 
his heart? Was it that he clung to the vain 
hope that she would write to him ? 

“ At what time does the mail arrive?” he 
asked of one of the servants. 

“At noon, monsieur,” she replied. 

It was just twelve, and he went to the 
window, to listen to the passing footsteps, 
with growing uneasiness. A knock on the 
outside door startled him. It was the carrier, 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


263 


but he brought only one newspaper, and three 
unimportant letters. He soon wearied of the 
newspaper, and went out. 

What would he do ? He stretched himself 
in the hammock for half an hour, and then 
an imperious need of change seized him. 
Would he go to the forest? Yes, the forest 
was delicious, but the solitude was even more 
profound than in the house, or the village, 
where the noise of life was sometimes heard. 
And the silent solitude of the trees and the 
leaves impregnated him with melancholy, 
and with regrets, drowning him in his misery. 
His thoughts went back to his long walk of 
the day before,- and he again saw before him 
the pretty waitress at the Hotel Corot, and he 
thought: “I will go there to dine.” This 
was a good idea, it was an occupation, a 
means of passing a few hours away, and he 
set off at once. 

He passed through the long road of the 
village, between the two rows of tiled 
covered houses. The peasants were engaged 
in domestic occupations in front of their 
houses. An old woman, bent down with 
age, with grayish-yellow hair, for peasants 


264 


NOTRE CmUR. 


seldom have real white hair, passed close to 
him. She was looking straight before her, 
unconscious of her surroundings, with eyes 
that had never seen anything but the few 
simple objects necessary to her poor exist- 
ence. 

Another woman, younger, was hanging 
out clothes before the door. The movements 
of her arms raised her skirt, exposing thick 
ankles incased in coarse blue stockings; her 
waist was large, her bosom as flat as the chest 
of a man; in fact, it was a body without form. 

Mariolle thought: “And these are women! ” 
The vision of Mme. de Burne arose before 
his eyes, in her exquisite elegance and 
beauty; a jewel ofhuman flesh, coquettish, and 
decorated for the gaze of men; and he shud- 
dered with the anguish of an irreparable 
loss. 

He then walked on faster, to shake this 
thought from his heart. 

When he entered the hotel, the little wait- 
ress recognized him at once,, and came to meet 
him. 

“ Good day, monsieur,” she said, pleas- 
antly. 












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NOTRE CCEUK. 


265 


“ Good day, mademoiselle,” he replied. 

“ Do you wish for something- to drink ? ” 
she asked, smiling. 

“Yes, for I am thirsty; then I shall dine 
here.” 

They first discussed what he should drink, 
then what he should eat. He consulted her 
that he might hear her speak; for she 
expressed herself well, with that brief Parisian 
accent, and an ease of elocution as graceful 
as the ease of her movements. 

“ She is very agreeable,” he thought, as he 
listened; then he asked, aloud: “Are you a 
Parisian ? ” 

“Yes, monsieur,” she answered. 

“ How long have you been here? ” he con- 
tinued. 

“Two weeks, monsieur.” 

“Do you like the place?” 

“ Not yet ; but it is too soon to know ; and, 
then, I was tired of Paris, and the country 
has done me good. That is why I came 
here. Here is your vermuth, monsieur.” 

“Very well, mademoiselle. Pray tell the 
cook to be careful with my dinner.” 

“ Do not fear, monsieur.” 


266 


NOTRE CmUR. 


He went out into the garden, and seated 
himself in an arbor, where his vermuth was 
soon brought to him. Here he remained 
until sunset, listening to the singing of a robin 
in a cage, and watching the little waitress, who, 
becoming conscious of his admiration, glided 
in and out in her coquettish and graceful way. 

He returned home as on the previous day, 
with his heart enlivened by a bottle of cham- 
pagne ; but the darkness of the road and the 
coolness of the air soon dissipated his slight 
dizziness, and an invincible sadness again 
overcame him. He fell asleep that night, 
asking himself these questions : “ What shall 
I do ? Shall I remain here ? Am I con- 
demned to drag on this miserable existence 
forever ? ” 

The next morning, as he stood contemplat- 
ing the fisherman drawing in his seine, he 
was seized with a desire of fishing also. The 
man from whom he purchased the necessary 
articles having offered to guide his first 
efforts, Mariolle accepted the offer gladly, 
and at half-past nine, after great efforts and 
assiduous attention, he succeeded in landing 
three small fishes, 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


267 


This, however, soon wearied him, and he 
again took the road to Marlotte, only to kill 
time, as he said to himself. 

“ Good morning, monsieur,” laughed the 
little waitress, as she saw him. 

“Good morning, mademoiselle,” he said, 
smiling in return. 

She had now lost some of her timidity ; 
and he made her speak of herself. He soon 
found out that her name was Elizabeth 
Ledru. 

Her mother, a seamstress, had died the 
previous year ; then her father, who was 
always intoxicated, and had lived from the 
united labor of his wife and daughter, dis- 
appeared ; for the girl, when left alone, could 
not supply him sufficiently. At last, weary 
of her solitary occupation, she had engaged 
as waitress, and, one day having served the 
proprietor of the Hotel Corot, he was pleased 
with her, and offered to take her to Marlotte. 
She had accepted, and proved herself a great 
attraction to the newly opened establishment. 
Mariolle drew all this story from her by 
adroit questioning, and he was much affected 
by the picture of this desolate home ruined by 


268 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


a drunkard father. Alone and almost a 
wanderer, the sympathy of this stranger gained 
her confidence, and she related all the details 
of her pure and simple life. 

“And you will be a waitress all your 

life ? ” he asked, when she had ended. 

“ How can I tell, monsieur ? One never 
knows what to-morrow may bring.” 

“ Nevertheless, you must think of your 
future,” he added. 

Her face assumed an expression of medita- 
tion and uneasiness, hut soon resumed its 
cheerfulness. 

“ I will take what comes,” she answered, 
briefly. 

He returned a few days later, then again 
and again, vaguely attracted and soothed by 
the innocent babbling of this lovely girl. 

But in his lonely walks in the evenings, on 
his return to Montigny, he would again be 
overcome by terrible attacks of despair when 
his thoughts turned back to Mme. de Burne, 
and he would be torn by regrets and fero- 
cious jealousy. He had heard nothing of her, 
having written to no one since his exile from 
Paris. Therefore he knew nothing, but could 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


269 


only conjecture the progress of the liaison he 
had foreseen between his former mistress and 
the Comte de Bernhaus. This idea became 
more and more fixed each day. That man, 
he thought, is all that she desires — a lover, 
distinguished, assiduous, without being ex- 
acting, satisfied and flattered by the prefer- 
ence of this delicious and skillful coquette. 

One day, as Mariolle reached Marlotte, he 
saw that one of the arbors was occupied by 
two dissipated-looking young men, wearing 
student’s caps and s^king long pipes. 

The proprietor, a oig man, with a florid 
complexion, came forward to welcome this 
guest, evidently becoming interested in this 
faithful diner. 

“ I have two new guests,” he said, smiling, 
“two artists, who arrived yesterday.” 

“Those gentlemen over there?” asked 
Mariolle. 

“Yes; they are already known, the smaller 
one having obtained the second medal last 
year.” And, having told all he knew of the 
artists, he asked: 

“What do you wish for to-day, monsieur?” 


270 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


“Send me a vermuth, as usual,” ordered 
Mariolle. 

Elizabeth soon appeared, carrying a tray, 
with a bottle and a jug of water. And, see- 
ing her, one of the artists called out : 

“ Well, petite, are you still angry ? ” 

She did not reply, and, when she ap- 
proached Mariolle, he saw that her eyes were 
red. 

“You have been weeping!” he said. 

“ Yes, a little,” she answered, simply. 

“What has happened?” he asked. 

“Those two gentlemen over there have 
behaved badly to me,” she said. 

“ What have they done ? ” he asked. 

“They insulted me,” she replied. 

“Have you complained to the propri- 
etor?” 

“Oh, monsieur — the proprietor — the pro- 
prietor — I know him too well,” she said, 
shrugging her shoulders. 

“Tell me about it,” he said, irritated and 
moved. 

She then related the brutal conduct of the 
two profligates, and this brought back her 
tears, asking herself what she would do ; lost 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


271 

in this country, without protection, without 
support, and without resources. 

“Will you enter my service ?” said Mari- 
olle, suddenly interrupting her. “You will 
be well treated, and, when I return to Paris, 
you will be free to do as you please.” 

She looked at him, first in surprise, then 
said, quietly, “I am quite ready. Monsieur.” 

“How much do you earn here?” he re- 
sumed. 

“ Sixty francs per month, besides what I 
receive from the guests. In all, about sev- 
enty francs.” 

“I will give you a hundred,” he said. 

“ A hundred francs a month ! ” she repeated, 
in surprise. 

“ Yes ; is it satisfactory ? You will only have 
to take care of my room and my clothes.” 

“I accept, monsieur,” she answered, de- 
lightedly. 

“When will you come?” he asked, draw- 
ing two louis from his pocket, and adding: 
“ Here is your earnest penny.” 

“I will be there to-morrow, if I have to 
call on the mayor for assistance,” she said, 
with a bright smile. 


CHAPTER 11. 


Elizabeth arrived at Montigny early next 
day, followed by a peasant, with her baggage 
in a wheelbarrow. Mariolle had rid himself 
of one of the old servants by a liberal com- 
pensation, and she took possession at once of 
the little room vacated by her. 

When she presented herself before her 
new master, she appeared a little different to 
what she had been at Marlotte. She was less 
expansive, more humble; she was now the 
servant of the monsieur, whose modest friend 
she had been under the arbor of the tavern. 

In a few words he told her what would be 
required of her. She listened attentively, 
and at once assumed her place. 

A week went by without bringing any per- 
ceptible change. Mariolle, however, re- 
marked that he remained at home more than 
before, having now no pretext to walk to 
Marlotte, and that the house seemed less 
lugubrious than in the first days of his resi- 

272 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


273 


dence there. The intensity of his misery was 
lessened, and a deep melancholy, like a slow 
chronic disease, had replaced the sharp pain 
at his heart. 

All his past activity, the curiosity of his 
mind, his interest in things that had hitherto 
occupied and amused him; all these were 
now dead in him, replaced by a disgust of 
everything and an unconquerable apathy that 
did not even leave him the desire of going out. 
He now left the house but seldom, going from 
his parlor to the hammock, and from the ham- 
mock to the parlor. His only distractions 
consisted in watching the fisherman cast- 
ing his net, and looking at the flowing Loing. 

After the first few days of reserve and 
timidity, Elizabeth, with her feminine tact, 
noticed the constant sadness of her master, 
and one day, becoming bolder, she said to him: 

“ Monsieur is very lonesome here ? ” 

“Yes, quite lonesome,” he replied, resign- 
edly. 

“Monsieur should go out,” she ventured. 

“That would not interest me,” he replied. 

From that day she began to shower secret 
and devoted attentions on him. Each morn- 

Notre Coeur j8 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


274 

ing he found his parlor filled with flowers, and 
perfumed like a conservatory. Elizabeth 
must have taken advantage of the wander- 
ings of all the urchins in the neighborhood, 
who always returned from the forest with 
their hands filled with primroses, violets, and 
golden buttercups; she also secured the little 
garden of the village that the peasants tended 
so carefully morning and night. Notwith- 
standing his distress and torpor, he felt grate- 
ful to her for these little attentions. 

He began to think she was becoming pret- 
tier : that her face was paler, and more re- 
fined. He even noticed, one day as she was 
serving his tea, that her hands were becom- 
ing whiter, her nails well cared for, and irre- 
proachably clean. Another time he remarked 
that her feet were encased in almost elegant 
shoes. Then, one afternoon she came down 
from her room in a charming gray dress, 
simple and tasty. 

“ Why, Elizabeth, you are becoming a 
coquette,” he exclaimed, as he saw her. 

“ I ? Oh, no, monsieur,” she stammered, 
blushing. “ I dress a little better because 
I have more money.” 


NOTRE CCEUR. 275 

“ Where did you buy that pretty dress ? ” 
he asked. 

“I made it myself, monsieur,” 

“You made it yourself?” he echoed, in 
surprise. “ But when did you find time ? I see 
you working- about the house all day long.” 

“Why, in the evening, monsieur,” she 
laughed. 

She then related how the merchant at 
Montigny had brought samples from Fon- 
tainebleau ; how she had chosen this and paid 
for it with the two louis given her by Mariolle 
as earnest money. As to the cutting and fit- 
ting, that did not trouble her much, as she 
had worked for a dressmaker for four years. 

“ It is very becoming and pretty,” he could 
not help saying, and she blushed again to the 
roots of her hair. 

When she had gone he asked himself, 
“ Can it be that she is in love with me ? ” He 
reflected, hesitated, doubted, and finally con- 
vinced himself that it was quite possible. He 
had been kind, compassionate, and almost a 
friend to her. It would certainly not be as- 
tonishing that she should become attached to 
him after all he had done for her. The idea, 


276 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


moreover, was not disagreeable ; this little 
person was really very pretty, and did not 
look like a servant. His vanity, so crushed 
and wounded by another woman, was flat- 
tered, soothed, almost comforted by the 
thought. It was a compensation, very slight, 
it is true, but a compensation nevertheless ; 
for, when love comes, wherever it may come 
from, it is because the object is capable of in- 
spiring it. His unconscious egotism was sat- 
isfied ; the contemplation of this little heart 
animated and beating for him, would be a pas- 
time, and perhaps a comfort. The thought of 
shielding this child from what he himself so 
cruelly suffered, to have more mercy for her 
than had been shown him, never occurred to 
him ; for no compassion is ever mingled with 
sentimental victory. 

He observed her more attentively, and soon 
saw that he was not mistaken. Her renewed 
attentions revealed it more plainly each day. 
As she brushed past him one morning, while 
waiting on him at breakfast, he perceived an 
odor of perfume emanating from her clothes ; 
the odor of a cheap and common perfume, 
obtained, no doubt, from the merchant or the 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


277 


druggist of the village. He then made her a 
present of a bottle of delicate perfume, which 
he used in his own bath, and of which he 
carried a large quantity wherever he went. 
Later he also gave her some fine soaps, den- 
trifice, and some poudre-de-riz. He subtlely 
assisted this transformation, more apparent 
and 'more complete each day, following it 
with a curious and flattered eye. 

While still remaining a faithful, discreet 
servant, she was becoming a lovely and 
affectionate woman, in whom all the coquet- 
tish instincts were innocently developing. 

He was gradually becoming attached to 
her ; he was interested, touched and grate- 
ful, He played with this awakening tender- 
ness, as one in weary hours toys with what- 
ever can amuse him. He felt for her no 
other attraction than that vague desire that 
attracts men toward an agreeable woman, 
whatever she may be ; a pretty servant or 
a peasant, with a form like a goddess, a sort 
of rustic Venus, He was especially drawn 
toward her because he found in her some- 
thing of the true woman. A confused, irre- 
sistible need of this had sprung from the 


278 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


Other, the woman he had loved, who had 
awakened in him that invincible and myste- 
rious taste for the neighborhood and contact 
of women, for that subtile ideal aroma of all 
charming creatures for the men, in whom 
still survives the immemorable attraction of 
the feminine being. 

This tender, incessant and secret attention, 
more perceptible than visible, enveloped his 
wound in a soothing shield, rendering it less 
sensitive to the returns of anguish. 

As he had left no direct address, his friends 
respected his silence, and he was tormented 
by the absence of news and information. 
From time to time, as he glanced over the 
morning papers, he saw the names of Lamar- 
the and Massival among a list of people who 
had assisted at a grand dinner, or taken part 
in a fete. One day he saw Mme. de Burne’s 
name cited as one of the most elegant and 
beautiful woman at the ball given at the Aus- 
trian embassy. The name of the Count de 
Bernhaus followed a few lines below. He 
shuddered from head to foot, and for hours 
his heart was torn by jealousy. That sup- 
posed liaison was now beyond doubt to him! 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


279 


It was one of those imaginary convictions, 
more harassing than a certainty, for they 
haunt us, and we are never rid of them. 

Finding it impossible to tolerate these sus- 
picions and uncertainties, he wrote to 
Lamarthe, who, he thought, had perhaps 
guessed his misery, and could answer his 
surmises without being directly questioned. 

One night, therefore, a long letter, vaguely 
sad, full of dissimulated interrogations and of 
lyrism on the beauty of the spring in the 
country, was dispatched to the novelist. 

Four days later, as he opened his mail, he 
recognized at a glance the firm handwriting 
of the novelist. 

Lamarthe .spoke of all their friends, without 
giving any more details on Mme. de Burne 
and Bernhaus than of any one else. He 
wrote in that artificial style which leads to 
the point to which he wishes to attract the 
attention, without revealing his design. 

The result of this letter was that Mariolle’s 
suspicions were confirmed. His fear would 
be realized to-morrow, if it were not already. 

The life of his former mistress was still the 
same ; agitated, brilliant and worldly. His 


28 o 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


friends had spoken of him after his sudden 
disappearance with an indifferent curiosity, 
supposing he had left because weary of 
Paris. 

After reading this letter, he spent the day 
stretched out in his hammock. He neither 
dined nor slept during the entire night. The 
next day he felt so fatigued, so discouraged, 
and so weary of those monotonous days spent 
between that deep, silent forest, now black 
with verdure, and that annoying little river 
flowing beneath his window, that he became 
quite feverish, and could not leave his bed. 

When Elizabeth came, in response to his 
summons, she was surprised to find him still 
in bed. 

“ Monsieur is ill ? ” she asked, turning pale. 

“ Yes, a little,” he replied. 

“Shall I send for the doctor?” she asked, 
anxiously. 

“ No ; I am subject to these slight indis- 
positions.” 

“ What can I do for you, monsieur?” she 
resumed. 

I will take my bath as usual, and you may 
bring me some eggs for breakfast, and a cup 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


281 

of tea now and then.” But about noon he 
became tired of remaining in bed, and grew 
impatient. 

He called Elizabeth incessantly, with the 
capriciousness of a sick person, and she would 
become uneasy and sad, trying to soothe and 
amuse him. Seeing how agitated and ner- 
vous he was, she proposed to read to him. 

“ Do you read well ?” he asked. 

“Yes, monsieur, I always took first prize 
in reading at school, and I read so many 
novels for mamma that I have even forgotten 
the titles. ” 

He was curious to test her ability, and sent 
her to his library in search of the book he 
preferred to all others, “ Manon Lescaut. ” 

She assisted him to sit up in bed, placing a 
chair and pillow behind him, and then com- 
menced. She read well, in fact, very well; 
gifted with an accurate accentuation and an 
intelligent pronunciation. She became in- 
terested from the first in what she read, and, 
as she went on, she showed so much emotion 
that he interrupted her to interrogate and 
converse. 

She answered the questions he asked with 


282 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


an innate sense of love and passion, but with 
an understanding somewhat obscured by pop- 
ular ignorance. And he thought to himself: 
“ This young girl would become intelligent 
and witty if she were instructed and devel- 
oped. ” 

That womanly charm he had before felt in 
her now influenced him in this warm and 
tranquil afternoon, mingling strangely in his 
mind with the mysterious and powerful charm 
of Manon. 

He was lulled by her voice, entranced by 
that fable, so well known, but always new, 
and he dreamed of a mistress, fickle and se- 
ductive as that of Grieux, unfaithful and con- 
stant, human and tempting, even in her most 
infamous faults; created to evoke in man all 
he has of tenderness and of anger, of attach- 
ment and passionate hatred, of jealousy and 
of desire. 

Ah ! if she he had loved, had only had that 
loving perfidy of this irritating courtisane in 
her veins, perhaps he would never have gone 
away ; for Manon deceived, but she loved ; 
she lied, but gave herself unreservedly. 

After this day of indolence, Mariolle, when 















NOTRE CaSUR. 


283 


night came, fell into a dreamy sleep, in 
which all these women were confounded. 
Having undergone no fatigue during the 
day, his sleep was light, and an unusual 
noise in the house suddenly disturbed his 
slumber. 

Once or twice before he had heard foot- 
steps, and almost imperceptible movements 
during the night. This noise seemed to pro- 
ceed from the lower floor, and, being unable 
to sleep again, he listened attentively. As it 
continued, he arose, and, lighting his candle, 
he looked at the clock. It was scarcely ten 
yet. He dressed, and, placing a revolver in 
his pocket, descended, cautiously, to the 
lower floor. 

He entered the kitchen, and was astounded 
to find a fire in the furnace. The noise had 
now ceased, but, after a few seconds, he 
thought he heard a movement in the bath- 
room. Approaching cautiously, he pushed 
the door suddenly open, and was dumb- 
founded to find Elizabeth standing near the 
mirror, drying her pretty hair. She gave 
a wild cry, but before she could fly, he 
caught her in his strong arms, and was 


284 


NOTRE COSUR. 


kissing the pouting lips. She understood, 
and, lifting her arms, placed them around 
his neck. 


CHAPTER III. 


When she came to him next morning-, she 
trembled so violently, as she met his eyes, that 
she almost spilt the cup of tea she carried. 

Mariolle came toward her, and, taking the 
tray from her hands, placed it on the table. 

“ Look at me, child,” he said to her, as she 
kept her eyes on the ground. 

As she raised her eyes to him, he noticed 
they were filled with tears. 

“ Do not weep,” he said, tenderly. 

As he pressed her in his arms, he felt her 
shivering from head to foot. He understood 
that it was neither regret nor remorse that 
moved her thus, but true happiness. A strange 
egotistical contentment, rather physical than 
moral, came over him, as he pressed this lov- 
ing little heart to his bosom. He felt that 
same gratitude that a wounded man, lying 
by the roadside, would feel toward the passer- 
by that would succor him; and he also pitied 
her a little in the bottom of his heart. He 

285 


286 


NOTRE CCBUR. 


looked at her, pale and tearful, her eyes burn- 
ing with love, and he said to himself, “ She is 
indeed beautiful. How quickly a woman be- 
comes transformed, becomes what she should 
be according to the desires of her heart or the 
needs of her life.” 

He led her to a seat, and took her hands 
in his, those poor, hard-working hands, that 
had become white and soft for him, and 
very tenderly, with adroit phrases, he spoke 
of the attitude they should maintain toward 
each other. She was no longer his servant ; 
but they must keep up appearances to pre- 
vent scandal. She would now assume the 
position of a sort of housekeeper, and would 
read to him frequently ; this would serve as 
a pretext for their new relation. In a little 
while, when her position as reader would 
have become fully established, she would sit 
at his table. 

“No, monsieur ; I will remain your serv- 
ant,” she replied, simply. “ I do not wish 
any one to know what has taken place between 
us.” 

And no amount of persuasion would make 
her recede from this determination. And 


NOTRE CCEVR. 


287 


when he had finished his breakfast, she took 
up the tray as usual, while his eyes followed 
her out of the room with a tender expression 
in them. 

“ She is a woman ! ” he thought, when she 
had gone. “All women are equals when they 
please us. My servant has become my mis- 
tress ; and from a pretty girl she will become 
a charming woman! — at all events, she is 
younger and fresher than the women of the 
world. What does it matter, after all ? How 
many celebrated actresses have come from 
the gutter? Nevertheless, they are received 
as ladies, adored like heroines in romance, 
and princes treat them like sovereigns. Is 
it because of their talents, doubtful very often, 
or their beauty, often questionable ? No. 
But a woman always obtains that position in 
the world, which she imposes by the illusion 
she can produce.” 

As he took his walk that day he felt less 
lost, less abandoned. The forest seemed less 
deserted and silent ; and the thought of 
Elizabeth’s face, brightened up by a smile of 
gladness and a look of tenderness at his 
return, hastened his steps homeward. 


288 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


For a whole month it was a true idyl of 
love on the shores of this little river. Mariolle 
was loved as few men have been, foolishly, 
blindly ; she loved him as a dog loves his 
master, or as a mother loves her child. 

To her, he was heaven and earth, pleasure 
and happiness. He responded to all her 
ardent and innocent expectations, giving her 
in a kiss all she could experience of ecstacy. 
He filled her heart and soul ; and his words 
intoxicated her like the first wine imbibed by 
a youth. 

But, though he appreciated this love and 
devotion, he still remained sad. His little 
mistress pleased him, but another was want- 
ing. And when he walked through the 
prairies, or on the shores of the Loing, he 
incessantly asked himself: “Why this sad- 
ness that never leaves me ? ” and, as the 
remembrance of Paris came back to him, an 
intolerable restlessness overpowered him, and 
he would return to the house to escape from 
himself. 

Then he would throw himself into the ham- 
mock, and Elizabeth would read softly to him. 
Even as he listened and looked at her, his 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


289 


thoughts went back to those long evenings 
spent in the drawing-room of his beloved ; then 
a burning pain of regret would pierce his heart, 
the tears would come to his eyes, and he felt 
an irrepressible desire to return to Paris. 

“ Why do you weep ? Are you suffering? ” 
would ask Elizabeth, seeing his melancholy. 

“Kiss me, child,” he would answer, simply. 
“You do not understand.” 

Then he recommenced his long walks 
through the forest, with the obscure hope of 
leaving some part of his misery at the bottom 
of a ravine, behind a rock, or in the thick 
shrubbery, like a man who, wishing to rid 
himself of a faithful dog without killing it, 
tries to stray it in distant rambles. 

One day, in one of his long ramblings, he 
returned to the country of the “beeches.” 
It was now a somber forest, almost dark with 
its impenetrable foliage. He penetrated un- 
der this immense vault, and, as he followed a 
narrow path, he stopped, astonished, before 
two interlaced trees. 

No stronger or more moving figure of his 
love had ever struck his eye, or his heart — a 
vigorous beech embracing a slender oak. 

Notre CcEur 19 


t 





290 NOTRE CCEUR. 

This beech, like a despairing lover, encircled 
the oak in its two formidable branches as if 
they were restraining arms. The other, held 
in the close embrace, stood erect, its tall, 
slim figure towering above the beech, as if in 
disdain. But, notwithstanding its flight into 
space, that haughty flight of an outraged be- 
ing, it carried in its sides the two wounds that 
the irresistible branches of the beech had dug 
in its bark. Linked forever by these closed 
wounds, they grew together, mingling their 
saps, and through the veins of the violated 
tree flowed the blood of the victorious one. 

He was slowly returning home, when he 
saw at the foot of a tree a mud-stained dis- 
patch, lost or thrown away by some passer- 
by. Had this little piece of blue paper now 
lying at his feet brought sad or happy news 
to some heart ? 

He could not help picking it up and curi- 
ously looking at it. He then unfolded it, but 
the dampness of the forest had nearly obliter- 
ated the writing ; he could only decipher the 
words : “ Come I four o’clock.” 

He was assailed by cruel and delicious 
recollections of the many dispatches he had 


I 


NOTRE C(EUR. 29 1 

received from her ; sometimes to fix the hour 
of their rendezvous, others to say she could 
not come. Nothing had ever moved him or 
caused his poor heart to palpitate so violently 
as the sight of these blissful or desparing 
messages, which he would never again 
receive. 

He again wondered what had passed since 
he had left her. Had she suffered ? had she 
regretted the lover driven away by her indif- 
ference ? or had his sudden departure only 
wounded her vanity? 

And his desire to know became so violent 
and so tenacious that an audacious idea sud- 
denly overcame him. He turned his steps to 
Fontainebleau, and went at once to the tele- 
graph office. His heart was agitated by hesi- 
tation and vibrating with inquietude ; but an 
irresistible force seemed to drive him on. 

With a trembling hand he took up a form, 
and wrote the address of Mme. de Burne, 
then the following ; 

“ I must know what you think of me ! I 
can forget nothing. 


Andre Mariolle, 

“ Montigny. 


292 


NOTRE C(EVR. 


He calculated, that, if she deigned to reply, 
he would receive her letter in two days, but 
he never left the villa during the next day, 
through fear and in the hope of receiving a 
dispatch from her. 

About three o’clock in the afternoon, as he 
was swinging himself indolently in the ham- 
mock, Elizabeth announced that a lady 
awaited him in the parlor. 

His surprise was so great that it almost 
suffocated him, and he walked toward the 
house with faltering steps and a palpitating 
heart. Y et he scarcely dared hope she had 
come. 

When he opened the parlor door, Mme. de 
Burne arose to meet him, with a slight reserve 
and constraint in her smile and manner. 

“I have come to see how you are,” she 
said, extending her hand. “The dispatch 
gave me no details.” 

He turned so pale at the sight of her that 
a gleam of joy came into her eyes ; he was 
speechless through emotion, and he could 
only kiss the hand she extended him. 

“How kind you are,” he muttered, at last. 

“No; it is not that; but I do not forget my 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


293 


friends. ” She looked, at him with that search- 
ing gaze that ransacks the thoughts to their 
roots and unveils all artifices. She was evi- 
dently satisfied, for a smile lighted up her 
face. 

“ Your hermitage is very pretty,” she re 
sumed. “ Are you happy in it ?* 

“ No, madame, ” he replied, with a sigh. 

“ Is it possible?” she exclaimed. “In this 
beautiful country, with that magnificent forest 
and the charming little stream ? Why, you 
should be quite happy here ! ” 

“ No, madame, I am not happy.” 

“And why?” 

“ Because it does not make me forget, ” he 
replied. 

“ Is it, then, indispensable to your happiness 
that you should forget something ? ” she asked. 

“Yes, madame, it is indispensable.” 

“ May I ask what it is ? ” 

“You are aware of it. ” 

“ And, then ? ” 

“ Then, I am very miserable, ” he added. 

“I inferred as much from your telegram,” 
she said, “and that is why I came, having 
resolved to return at once if I were mistaken. ” 


294 


NOTRE CGEUR. 


Then, after a short silence, she added: 
“Since I am not to return immediately, may 
I not visit your property. That path under 
the linden trees looks very inviting, and it 
would be so much cooler there than in this 
parlor. ” 

She wore a mauve toilet that harmonized 
so well with the verdure of the trees and the 
blue of the sky, and looked so charming and 
pretty, that he looked at her in amazement as 
if she were an apparition. Her flaming blonde 
hair was covered by a large mauve hat, 
trimmed with ostrich feathers ; and her carriage, 
so proud and haughty, brought into this little 
country garden something of the abnormal, 
the unexpected, the exotic, the odd sensation 
of a dream, an engraving, a painting by Wat- 
teau, sprung from the imagination of a poet 
or a painter, and transported into this country 
garden, through a fancy, to show how beauti- 
ful she was, 

Mariolle gazed on her, and felt his passion 
return in all its intensity. 

“ What is that young girl who opened the 
door for me ? ” she suddenly asked. 

“ My servant,” he answered. 


NOTRE CCEVR. 


295 


‘ ‘ She has not the appearance of — a servant. ” 

“ No, in fact, she is quite pretty,” he said. 

“ Where did you find her ? ” 

“ Not far from here! She was working in 
a hotel where the guests menaced her virtue.” 

“Which you have saved ? ” 

“Which I have saved,” he repeated, blush- 
ing. 

“To your own profit, perhaps ? ” she con- 
tinued. 

“To my profit, certainly, for it is pleas- 
anter to have pretty faces around you than 
ugly ones.” 

“And is that the only interest she inspires 
in you } ” 

“She has also inspired me, perhaps, with 
the irresistible need of seeing you again ; for 
all women, when they attract my eyes, even 
for a second, always bring you to my 
thoughts.” 

“What you say is all very pretty; but 
does she love her rescuer? ” 

He blushed furiously. The certainty that 
all jealousy is good to stimulate the heart of 
a woman decided him, with the rapidity of 
lightning, to tell her half the truth. 


296 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


“ I know nothing,” he replied, hesitatingly. 
“ It is possible. She exhibits a great deal of 
solicitude and care for me.” 

“And you?” murmured she. in a tone of 
slight vexation. 

“Nothing can make me forget you ! '* he 
exclaimed, fixing his eyes, burning with love, 
on her. 

This was also an evasion, but she did not 
remark it, this phrase seemed to her the 
expression of an indisputable truth. Could 
a woman like her doubt it ? In fact, she did 
not doubt it, but was satisfied, and did not 
give Elizabeth another thought. 

They now reached the lindens, and, seating 
themselves on two camp chairs, watched the 
flowing of the stream. 

“ What have you thought of me ?” he asked. 

“ That you were very unhappy,” she re- 
plied, sympathizingly. 

, “ Through my own fault or through yours?” 
he asked. 

“Through our fault,” she replied. 

“And, then?” 

“And, then,” she resumed, “ I felt that you 
were very excited, and very foolish. I con- 


NOTRE cm UR. 297 

eluded that the wisest plan consisted in allow- 
ing you to become calmer, and I waited.” 

“ What were you waiting for ? ” he asked. 

“For a word from you. I received it, and 
I am here. Now we can converse like sensi- 
ble people. Then, you still love me — I do 
not ask this as a coquette — I ask this of you 
as a friend ?” 

“ I still love you,” he said, simply. 

“And what do you propose ?” 

“ I know not; I am in your hands.” 

“ Oh ! I have very clear ideas on the sub- 
ject; but I will not tell them without knowing 
yours. Tell me of yourself. What has 
passed in your mind and in your heart since 
your flight ? ” 

“ I have done nothing but think of you.” 

“Yes, but how?” she asked. “In what 
way ? What were your conclusions ? ” 

He told her of his resolution to forget her, 
of his flight, his arrival in this great forest, 
where he saw and found nothing but her. 

He told her of his days haunted by the re- 
membrance of her ; his nights tortured by 
jealousy. He told her all, in good faith, with 


298 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


the exception of Elizabeth’s love, whose name 
he did not mention. 

She listened, sure that he told the truth, 
convinced by the knowledge of her dominion 
over him, still more than by the sincerity of 
his voice, and charmed at having him back, 
for she really loved him. 

He lamented his sad position, without 
ceasing, speaking exultingly of all he had 
suffered, and all he had thought, and he re- 
proached her again, in a passionate plea, but 
without anger or bitterness, conquered by the 
fatality, this impotency of love, under which 
she labored. 

“You have not the gift of loving,” he re- 
peated. But she interrupted him with a flood 
of arguments. 

“I am at least faithful,” she said. “Would 
you be less unhappy,” she went on, “if, after 
having adored you for six months, I loved 
another man ? ” 

“Is it, then, impossible for a woman to love 
but one man ?” he cried. 

“We cannot love forever,” she answered, 
quietly. “ We can only be faithful. Can you 
believe that this foolish delirium of the senses 


NOTRE C(EUR. 


299 


can last many years ? No ! no ! The majority 
of passionate and sentimental women spend 
their lives in romancing. The heroes are 
different, the events unexpected and change- 
able, and the denouement is variable. It is 
amusing and interesting for them, I admit; 
for the emotions of the beginning, the middle 
and the end are acted over again each time. 
But when it is finished it is over — for him. 
Do you understand ? ” 

“Yes, there is truth in what you say, but 
I fail to see what you are coming to.” 

“To this: no passion can last very long. I 
mean the brutal and torturing passion, from 
which you are still suffering. It is a painful 
crisis that I have brought on you; very pain- 
ful, I know it and I feel it by — the sterility 
of my love and the paralysis of my powers of 
expansion. But this crisis will pass; it can- 
not last forever.” 

“And, then?” he interrupted, anxiously. 

“Then I consider, that, fora woman as calm 
and reasonable as myself, you can become 
quite an agreeable lover, for you have a great 
deal of tact; but, on the contrary, you would 


300 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


be an atrocious husband. But, then, good 
husbands do not exist.” 

“ Why keep a lover that you do not love, 
or that you no longer love,” he asked, irri- 
tatedly. 

“ I love in my own way, my friend,” she 
replied, quickly. “I love dryly, but I love.” 

“ You particularly feel the need of being 
loved, and that it should be visible,” he said, 
resignedly. 

“ It is true ; that is what I like,” she re- 
plied. “ But my heart also needs a hidden 
companion. That selfish taste for public 
homage will not prevent me from being faith- 
ful and devoted ; and I believe I could give 
to the man I love something I could not give 
to others — my loyal affection, a sincere at- 
tachment, the secret and absolute confidence 
of my heart, and in exchange receive from 
him the rare and sweet impression of com- 
panionship with the tenderness of a lover. It 
is not love, as you understand it ; but it is 
something, nevertheless.” 

“ May I hope to be that lover ? ” he mut- 
tered, trembling with emotion. 

“ Yes ; some day when you suffer less. In 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


301 


the meantime you must be resigned to under- 
go something for my sake ; and, since you 
must suffer, it were better it should be near 
me than at a distance.” 

Her smile seemed to say: “You should 
have more confidence in me,"” and, as she saw 
him so affected, she felt a sort of satisfaction, 
which made her happy in her own way, like 
a hawk seizing his fascinated prey. 

“When will you return?” she asked. 

“Why — to-morrow,” he replied. 

“Very well; you will come and dine with 
me,” she said. “And now I must go,” she 
resumed, consulting the little watch hidden 
in the handle of her umbrella. 

“ Oh ! why so soon ? ” he asked. 

“Because, I must take the five o’clock 
train,” she answered. “I shall have several 
people dining with me. The Princess de 
Malten, Bernhaus, Lamarthe, Massival, Mal- 
try, and a new one, M. de Charlaine, the 
explorer, who has just returned from Gam- 
boge, after an enchanting voyage. He is 
quite the rage.” 

All these names, one after another, 


302 


NOTRE CCEVR. 


wounded him like the stings of a wasp ; they 
contained venom. 

“Then,” said he, “you must allow me to 
accompany you, and we shall go through the 
forest.” 

“Very well,” she said; “but first order 
some tea and toast for me.” 

But, when they went in search of Elizabeth, 
she was not to be found. Mme. de Burne was 
not surprised, besides, what fear should she 
now have of the little servant ? 

They entered the landau, and Mariolle 
ordered the coachman to take the road lead- 
ing through the “ Gorge-aux-Loups.” 

When they reached the tall trees, casting 
their calm shadows, their enveloping fresh- 
ness filled with the songs of the birds, she was 
seized with that inexpressible sensation with 
which the all-powerful and mysterious beauty 
of the world moves the heart through the eyes. 

“H ow beautiful, how good and refreshing,” 
she exclaimed. 

She breathed this pure air with the happi- 
ness and emotion of a sinner who receives the 
sacraments ; she was penetrated with love, 
and she placed her hand within his. 


NOTRE CCEVR. 


303 

But he thought, “ Ah ! yes, it is nature ; it is 
a repetition of Mont-Saint-Michel.” They 
soon reached the station, where the train was 
waiting. 

“To-morrow at eight o’clock, madame,” 
he repeated. 

He then re-entered the landau, satisfied 
and happy, but still tormented, for it was not 
over. 

But why struggle when he could bear it no 
longer. She possessed an incomprehensible 
power over him, stronger than himself. To 
fly from her did not deliver him, did not 
separate him from her ; but it was an intolera- 
ble privation, while, if he could resign himself 
to it, he would at least have all that she had 
promised, for she never lied. 

During their interview she had not even 
had the impulse of offering him her lips. 
She was always the same, nothing would 
ever change in her, and perhaps he would 
always suffer through her in the same way. 
The recollections of those hours of expecta- 
tions he had already passed with the intoler- 
able certainty that he never could touch her 
heart, made him dread the coming struggles 


304 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


and the same distresses for the future. 
Nevertheless, he was resigned to suffer every- 
thing rather than lose her again, resigned to 
that eternal desire now become a sort of fero- 
cious appetite flowing through his veins and 
burning his flesh. 

The rage that had often seized him when 
returning alone from Auteuil was already 
recommencing, and made him shudder in the 
landau, when suddenly the thought of Eliza- 
beth, fresh, young, and pretty, also awaiting 
him with her heart filled with love, and her 
lips ready for kisses, calmed him. Even at 
this moment he felt some grateful attachment 
for this charming child. Would she not be 
to his parched soul the little spring found at 
the halting-place after the day’s suffering, the 
hope of fresh water which sustains the energy 
when traversing the desert. 

But when he entered the house the young 
girl had not reappeared. 

“ Are you sure she went out ? ” he asked, 
uneasily. 

“Yes, monsieur,” answered the old serv- 
ant. 

He went out, hoping to meet her, and, as 










NOTRE CCEUR. 


305 


he was taking the road along the little valley, 
he saw the old church before him. It was 
large and low, crowned with a short steeple. 

A suspicion, or a presentiment, pushed him 
on. What strange suspicion might have 
been born in her heart? What had she 
thought? what had she understood? Where 
would she have taken refuge, if not there, if 
a shadow of the truth had passed through her 
mind ? 

The temple was dark, for it was now mid- 
night. Alone the little lamp at the end ofits 
chain revealed in the tabernacle the ideal 
presence of the Divine Consoler. Mariolle, 
with light steps, passed along the pews, and, 
as he reached the sanctuary, he saw a kneel- 
ing woman, with her face buried in her hands. 
When he came nearer he recognized Eliza- 
beth. 

He touched her on the shoulder, and she 
gave a start, turning her face toward him. 
She was weeping. 

“ What is it?” he asked her. 

“I understand it all,” she murmured. 
“You are here because she grieved you, and 
she has come to take you back. ” 

Notre Coeur 20 


3o6 


NOTRE CCEUR. 


“You are mistaken, child, ” he said, touched 
by her grief. “ It is true, I am going back 
to Paris, but I shall take you with me. ” 

“ It cannot be, it cannot be,” she cried, in- 
credulously. 

“I swear it,” he protested. 

“When ?” she asked, eagerly. 

“To-morrow,” he answered. 

Her tears flowed anew, as she murmured : 
“ I am so happy ! so happy ! ” 

He passed his arm around her waist, and 
almost carried her out into the deep shadows 
of the night, and, when they reached the river 
bank, he seated her on the grass at his side. 
He could hear the beating of her heart, and 
she was still sobbing violently. He was 
seized by remorse at sight of her grief and, 
as he pressed her to his heart, he whispered 
words of love, sweeter than she had ever 
heard. 

He promised to love her well — he did not 
say “love” short, without qualifications — he 
promised her pretty apartments, near his 
own, with fine furniture, and a servant. 

She became quiet, listening, reassured, 
little by little, unable to believe that he would 


NOTRE COS UR. 


307 


abuse her confidence, understanding, more- 
over, from the accents of his voice, that he 
was sincere. Convinced at last, and dazzled 
by the vision of being a lady in her turn, she, 
a poor servant in a tavern, to suddenly be- 
come the friend of so rich and elegant a man, 
she was intoxicated by covetousness, grati- 
tude and pride, which mingled with her 
attachment for Andre. 

Throwing her arms around his neck, and 
covering his face with kisses, she murmured : 
“ I love you so much ! I have no thought 
but of you.” 

“My darling, darling child ! ” he exclaimed, 
moved by her caresses. 

*She had already almost forgotten the ap- 
parition of the stranger who had caused her 
so much grief a little while before. Never- 
theless, an unconscious doubt still floated in 
her mind, and she asked, in a caressing voice : 

“Truly, you will always love me as you 
do here ? ” 

And he replied, boldly : “ I will love you 
always as I do here.” 


END. 



By ALPHONSE DAUDET 



UNABRIDGED TRANSLATION FROM THE 100TH FRENCH EDITION 


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est gems of our literature at so very small expense.” 

PROF. WM. W. THOMPSON, 
Principal of Amsterdam ( N. Y.) Academy, 


This beautiful volume with full gilt edges will be sent to any address, 
postpaid, on •‘eceipt of $1.50. 

LAIRD & LEE, Publishers, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS. 


THE GREAT NEW NOVEL 


THE LOST WITNESS 

OR, THE MYSTERY OF LEAH PAGET. 


By LAWRENCE L LYNCH, 

Author of « Shadowed by Three,” “ Dangerous Ground,” « Made- 
line Payne,” etc., etc. 

l2mo, 557 pages. i6 full-page illustrations. Printed on fine book paper, 
from large type; and handsomely bound in paper covers, thread sewed. 


The splendid reputation acquired by Mr. Lynch, whose fascinating 
writings have given delight to countless readers, is fully sustained in this, 
his latest work. Leah Paget ^ the beautiful daughter of a New York mill- 
ionaire, is mysteriously abducted. The police search in vain. Francis 
FerrarSi the famous detective of “ Shadowed by Three, ” is hastily sum- 
moned from Europe. Immediately following his arrival, a new complica- 
tion arises. Hortense Novalisy a famous and handsome actress, is found 
murdered, in her splendid apartments. The only clue discovered is a start- 
ling one, and seems to connect Leah Paget and her affianced with this 
crime ! Francis Ferrars^ and Cousiny a reporter, set themselves to work 
in earnest, each taking up a separate line of inquiry; and Ferrars places 
Cousin under surveillance as well. And the murder of Novalis is further 
complicated by the sudden disappearance of LaBelle FabricCy a rival 
actress, who has just scored a most successful debut. The plot of this 
fascinating book is intricate in the extreme, and we can promise readers a 
rare treat in its perusal. 


THE ABOVE BOOK FORMS NO. 1 OF 

The Library of Choice Fiction. 

FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS AND NEWSDEALERS, AND 
ON ALL RAILROAD TRAINS. 


LAIRD & LEE, Publishers, CHICAGO, ILL. 


SPECIAL ANIM0UNCEIV1EOT, 


The next issue (Number 4) of 

The Library of Choice Fiction, 

Ready Sept. 1st, will be one of the most 
celebrated of modern novels, 

SHADOWED ’ BY - THREE. 


By LAWRENCE L LYNCH, 

OF THE SECRET SERVICE. 


Th is Grand Story makes a volume of 670 pages, 
illustrated with 55 full-page engravings. 


Very few works in the English language have attained the enormouo 
circulation of “ Shadowed by Three,’* and it is safe to say that none 
have afforded more pleasure and satisfaction to its readers. It is intensely 
exciting from the first page to the last, and once commenced, the reader i& 
so captivated that he cannot be induced to lay it aside until its startling 
complications have been unraveled. 

Never before have the hazards, adventures and exciting incidents 
of the Detective’s dangerous calling been portrayed by the pen of a 
master-writer. Only the keen intellect of a Bathurst, the very Prince of 
Detectives, could have found and followed the semblance of a clue that 
was placed in his hands. At every step his pursuit was baffled by one, 
who, though a murderer, was in intelligence, courage, skill, and fertility of 
resource, scarcely inferior to the Master Detective who untiringly followed 
on his trail, baffled at every hand, but never for a moment discouraged ; in 
hourly danger of death, but never disheartened or dismayed. 


Every number of THE LIBRARY OF CHOICE FICTION is printed on 
a superior quality of book paper, from large type, and elegantly 
bound in paper covers. 

They are for sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, and on 
all railroad trains. 

liAIRO & LEE, Publishers, CHICAGO, ILL. 


A LITERARY GEM 


Mademoiselle de Maiipin, 

A ROMANCE OF LOVE AND PASSION. 

By THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 

12mo, 413 pages. Paper covers. Illustrated with 16 
Half-tones from the original etchings 
by Toudouze. 


*The golden book of spirit and sense, the Holy Writ of beauty.” — A. C. Sivinburne, 
“Gautier is an inimitable model. His manner is so light and true, so really cre- 
ative, his fancy so alert, his taste so happy, his humor so genial, that he makes illusion 
almost as contagious as laughter.” — Mr, Henry James, 


« MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN," the latest product of the pea of 
Theophile Gautier, is considered by the best critics of this inimitable 
Frenchman to be his mo::t artistic, witty and audacious work. In writing 
this charming novel, Gautier has displayed all the artistic coloring that 
atmospheres the romantic school of literature this versatile author has 
created. 

MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN ” is alive with the characteristic vigor 
shown in “Albertus,” “Les Jeunes — France,” and “Poesies de 
Theophile Gautier,” his earlier works, but is more delicate, and 
abounds in the subtle cynicism which contrasts so delightfully with the 
pungent wit that sparkles on every page. 

The book is a marvel of beauty, both from an artistic as well as a 
typographical standpoint- 


FOR SALE AT ALL BOOK STORES AND NEWS S’^ANDS AND ON ALL 
RAILROAD TRAINS. 

LAIRD & LEE, Publishers, 

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS. 


READY OCTOBER Ist, 1890, 

IN 

The Library of Choice Fiction. 

A Whaleman^ 8 Adventures on Sea and Land. 
By Wm. H. Thomes, author of A Gold Hunter's Advent- 
ures in Australia,” ‘‘The Bushrangers,” etc. i2mo, 444 
pages, 36 full-page engravings. 

A vivid story of life on a whaler in the Pacific Ocean, and of adventures in the Sand- 
wich Islands and in California in the early days when the discovery of gold 
electrified the whole wor>d, and attracted bold men to wrest the mines of wealth 
from the possession of Mexicans and Indians, 

READY NOVEMBER 1st, 1890. 

Madeline Payne^ The Petective^s Paughter. 
By Lawrence L. Lynch, author of “The Lost Witness,” 
“ Shadowed by Three,” “ The Diamond Coterie,” etc. 
i2mo, 456 pages, 55 full-page illustrations. 

A very interesting and exciting story. It abounds in incidents and surprises .” — The 
Chicago Inter Ocean. 

“ The story is spirited, full of action and characters of much finer cast than com- 
mon, while the language is chaste, effective, and exceedingly picturesque .” — The 
Detroit Free Press. 

READY DECEMBER 1st, 1890. 

The Bushrangers: A Yankee^ s Adventures dur^ 
ing a Second Trip to Australiao By Wm. 
H. Thomes. i2mo, 480 pages, 16 full-page illustrations. 

The record of a second voyage to that land of mystery and adventures 
— Australia — and replete with equally exciting exploits among the most 
lawless class of men. 

Every reader of “ A Gold Hunter’s Adventures in Australia ” will be 
ea:ger to follow the heroes on their second voyage. The thrilling interest 
is sustained to the end. 

The above books will be found at all Book Stores and News Stands and on all Z .il* 
road Trains. 

o— 


LAIRD & LEE, PUBLISHERS, 
CHICAGO, ILLS. 



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of Choice Fiction. Issued Monthly. By Subscription $6.00 per annum. No. 5. Oct., 1890. 
Entered at Chicago Postoffice as second-class matter. 


OTRE COEUR 

(THE HUMAN HEART) 

By Guy de Maupassant 



CHICAGO: 

LAIRD & LEE, PUBLISHERS 















The Library of Choice Fiction 


take pleasure in announcing to lovers of pure 
fiction that we have started the publication 
of a series of books to be known as 

The Library of Choice Fiction. 

(t is our purpose to issue in this Library none 
but the very best works of the very best authors. 
Every number will contain from 350 to 600 pages, 
and from 15 to 50 full-page engravings. They will 
be printed on the best quality of book paper, will 
be thread sewed, and printed from large and clear 
type, thus affording the greatest pleasure from a 
perusal of their pages. 

These books may be obtained from all booksellers 
and newsdealers, and are sold on all railroad trains. 

For terms, adress the publishers. 


NOW READY. 


Ho. 1, The Lost Witness; or. The Mystery of Leah Paget. 

By Lawrence L. Lynch (of the Secret Service), author of “Shadowed by 
Three,” “The Diamond Coterie,” etc. 657 pages; 16 full-page engravings. 

No. 2. Mademoiselle de Maupin, A Romance of Love and Passion. 

By Tbeopbile Qautier. 413 pages; 16 half-tone illustrations from etchings 
hy Tondouze. 

No. 3. A Gold Hnnter's Adventures in Australia. 

By Wm. H. Thornes, author of “The Bushrangers,” etc. 6«4 pages; 40 
full-page engravings. 


Mo. 4. Shadowed By Three. 

By Lawrence L. Lynch, aattMMr oL^nie Lost Witness,*' etc. 670 pages; 
66 faU-page engravings. 0 M 

LAIRD a LEE, Publishers. Chicaqo, III. 



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